


The Green Beret Barber of Orange Street

by ZulaWriter



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZulaWriter/pseuds/ZulaWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for reading!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!

Dear Reader,

The first time I ever saw a ghost, a hot knot of fear convulsed my stomach, clambering for relief. It was so bad that I puked in a corner. And it never got that good again. When I began my brief career as a paranormal investigator, I'd never actually seen a ghost. At least, not really. I'd seen a bit here, and a bit there. I guess you could say my experiences were strange, but average. 

When I first went to school for Paranormal Investigation, I didn't think too much of it. Really, it was just a way to pass the time. My parents were still too mad at me to pay for school at UM (University of Montana, for those who aren't familiar). To be honest, I was really just doing it to annoy them. I wanted to make them buckle faster, so then I could go back to school for real. Since I had no money of my own, I went to Missoula Vo-Tech. Loans were easy to get, low interest and all that. Besides, Vo-Tech was cheap, comparatively speaking.

For the longest time, all Vo-Tech offered was boring stuff like plumbing, accounting, business, electrical work, blah, blah, blah. I had no interest in going until they started offering classes in Paranormal Investigation. So, I went to school, made money as a barista, and partied more than studied; just like everyone else.

My parents wanted me to get serious about my life, but I wanted to have fun. I guess you could say we were at a stalemate. But, this is before everything in my life collapsed. It was before I witnessed a massacre and almost lost my sanity. These days, it would be most correct to say that I have no family anymore. Truly, sometimes I think, there is no one lonelier than me. I might as well be a ghost these days.

Anyway, to begin at the beginning, I was born and raised in a wonderful, magical, obscenely beautiful place called Missoula, Montana. I guess you could say I've always been full of zest and pepper, with stars in my eyes from gazing at the big, Big sky. Anyway, it was in Missoula where I had the premonition, which I thought at the time was a dream. It was too late when I realized that it was a dream that had come as a warning.

Anyway, I never left Missoula. Even after everything that happened, I don't think I ever will. There was no way to write my story anywhere else. Sometimes, even when it feels like all the good has gone out of the world, I still cannot bear to leave. There is no choice for me, not really. Missoula is home. Some days, there is nothing before my eyes but blood and sorrow. The sadness can cloud over even the most beautiful day. But how could I leave Missoula? There is no leaving Missoula, not really.

A pretty well-kept secret in town is that the word Missoula means "Valley of Bones." In other words, it is a town that was destined for a major haunting. Beyond that, it is a place of deep passions, and even deeper resentments. Not many know it, but a curse lays upon the land. One piece of it, anyway; down on Eddy Street, near the University. Because of the curse, every bit of winter despair, as well as all the deep, dark secrets swept under the rug, end up in one place. It is a place for evil, plain and simple. 

From the outside, the stately, old Craftsman looks like any other rundown mansion in the University district. But it isn't. It is a vortex; and haunted like nobody's business. It's still standing, and, if you go see it, I'm sure it won't have gotten any better. I will never go near there again. The thought sends chills down by spine. My story is the story of the secrets hidden there. And I am the only one who can tell it. I am the only one who survived. 

Everything began innocently enough, I swear. My friend, Amanda, called to say she needed help. She didn't really need help though. She needed someone to buy beer. At the time, I couldn't help suspecting she also wanted an extra infusion of drama to spice up an otherwise boring (illegal haunted house) camping excursion. And I'm not gonna lie, I wanted to go.

In consequence of this, and because we'd known each other awhile, she knew I'd say yes. Not only that, but I am a pushover. And, even worse, my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend planned the trip. It was all their idea. The trip, that is; not me coming along. I still loved him and he knew it. And I knew it would make everything awkward and awful. But did that stop me? No.

Still, I was the only one old enough to buy beer. And I didn't go just cause of him. I really was interested in the paranormal. I wanted to stretch boundaries and learn all about ghosts. And, I admit, I had been spending time in haunted houses. That didn't seem to be getting it done, so I began participating in seances. I played with the Ouija board, too. In other words, I was looking for trouble.

At first, I guess you could say that the results were mixed. Some scary, some anything but. For school, I did my homework and wrote essays (which I have been posting online). I don't give up easy, so I went on field trips and joined a paranormal investigation group. At the end of the day, it was mostly just smoke and mirrors and people looking for something to do on a Saturday night. 

It's too late now, but I know the truth. I didn't find it in any of those other places because it wasn't there (at least, not in a form I would've recognized). If only I had taken it more seriously. If only I had known that all that awaited us was madness and death. The truth of what I saw nearly burned me up. And my companions weren't even that lucky. Some things cannot be unseen. Some moments cannot be unlived. The devil will swallow your eyes. And he has been trying to swindle my soul ever since. 

The valley is my home now, as it has always been. I will never go near that haunted house again. Sometimes I think about it, I think about facing my fears; but then I remember all those I lost, and all those I could not save. Now, my past is only memories seen through a mist of terror and apprehension. All I have left is the story of what happened. But, it is not a journey I took alone. None of us expected what happened, but since it did happen, I think I'll call my story "The Green Beret Barber of Orange Street." 

Love,

Anna Anderson 

a.k.a. Zula Girl


	2. Journal #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first entry in Anna Mae Anderson's personal accounts of the paranormal events that led to the 'Massacre on Eddy Street.'

Journal # 1:

Dear Diary,

My name is Anna Mae Anderson. I was born at St. Patrick's Hospital during the heart of winter. Of course, this is back when St. Pat's used to deliver babies, which they don't anymore. I've heard it said that babies born in winter have stronger hearts than those born in the springtime. I don't know about all that. I do know that because I was born so close to Valentine's Day (only a few days removed) that any boyfriend I might have had only needed to buy one card and one gift. A bouquet of flowers, if I was lucky. But, to be honest, only one boy ever brought me flowers.

In the old days, bouquets of flowers held messages of love and devotion; but also, sometimes, messages of abandonment, betrayal, and sorrow. My one and only bouquet was made up of six red roses. So desperate was I to understand what he was feeling (or why he felt anything for me at all) that I looked up the meaning embedded in this gift. I learned that a gift of red roses is an expression of passionate love. We began dating in June and he brought me flowers on our third date. Months also have flowers associated with them. June's flower is the rose. It is also the sixth month of the year. I felt very strongly that these were all good signs.

In a way, it was true and I was right. I just forgot to remember that passionate love is not necessarily the same as spiritual love. He had what he wanted from me not long after. I guess, with his passions sated, the love he felt fell from his mind. He pierced my heart and pulled the string tight. To be honest, it didn't last between us much longer than it took those flowers to wither. After he left me, I felt suffocated each time I saw him. Actually, suffocation would have probably felt better. Still, and as further testimony to my unremitting stupidity, I wanted to see him; I wanted to see him so bad I wanted to see him. I would not force myself upon him, but I did put myself in his way. A lot. I don't know; it's just hard when you think for a minute that you might have someone to come home to besides your cat.

He actually introduced me to his new girlfriend before he left me for her. He called to say that I should meet him and some friends for lunch down at Finnegan's. I practically lived there with my friends, and I almost never turned down a chance to have one of their apple dumplings a la mode. I thought nothing of it until I got there. But, then I saw there were no friends, no buddies, no mutual acquaintances, it was just him and a tall blond girl I had never seen before. 

They sat together on one side of the booth while I took the other. We were seated right halfway over the bridge with the best view of the creek below. We had gotten lucky on the table front, and that is the only good thing I can say about that lunch. Because nothing was said, I thought nothing of it. I was foolishly confident of his love. He was my first love after all. 

Admittedly, I was always a late bloomer. The whole dating thing had been his idea, too. I had only met him once, so I was downright startled when he called me the next day. He had taken the trouble to get my number from a friend. It's painfully obvious now to see that I had definitely built my castle upon the sand. At the time, I was just confused. I did not know why he was with this blond girl, and I certainly didn't want her around going forward. It did not occur to me that he had already left me for her. An unlucky friend got the job of telling me. I swear, its so sad that I am always the last to know.

I must admit that Missoula is a most pretentious place. And it is a really hard place to have a broken heart. Everyone is having such a great time, all the time, breathing air that is crystal pure and all. Also, everyone is in shape, and dealing with the cold might as well be a competitive sport. It is hard to be heartbroken, and especially newly heartbroken, because no one wants you ruining their good time. Because Missoula does not come easy. You have to want it. You really must suffer for it. First of all, it is almost impossible to make money there. If not for the University providing jobs, it would be Aspen, just further north.

But a whole lot of people there have tons of money. Still, there's no getting around the snow. Piles and piles and piles of it all winter long. And even though the snow situation is not as bad as in other places in Montana (the Highline comes to mind), you are still going to be choked out of your own house by the smoke that gets trapped in the valley come summer by the perennial and unrecalcitrant return of fire season. 

And, thirdly, and there is no escaping this: it is a valley, a fishbowl. You have to fight for your plot of land. Does it really matter whether the fight is on the weather front rather than the job front? From what I understand, you can't even make a few extra bucks out in the huckleberry fields anymore. You might come out with a new haircut, if you're not careful.

Three strikes you're out, right? Not for me. And not for anyone else either. Missoula is too beautiful. It fills your senses and never lets you down easy. I think there is a piece of every person who has lived there, breathed the air, and loved it. Problem is, it is a valley. In my mind, it's crowded with a whole lot of souls. Still, it hardly matters. I left Missoula once and it felt like withdrawing from heroin. My soul ached unbearably until I came back six months later. It was sad. I was miserable company and made no friends in my new home.

I didn't do much better once I was back in the Garden City. But, (and this is another not well kept secret), you can go there to heal. Like Bath in England or Sedona, AZ, you can mostly heal what ails you there. Doesn't mean you'll be doing it in company though. Like I said, no one wants you to ruin their good time. I can't even blame them. The traffic alone can drive you batty. I am sorry I imposed my aching soul so heavily on everyone else instead of just forgetting about it. It didn't bring him back. Even when he was alive and could have done something, he didn't. He chose not me. 

Maybe falling in love is just a vainglorious adventure. It was for me. Is anyone really innocent after their first heartbreak? Can life ever really be the same once you have had to pick up the pieces of your heart and try to bind them back together? I don't think the sun ever shines so brightly again. It is like seeing a phantom, your whole world changes.

Someone once told me that it is believed in the Middle East that should you ever encounter a genie, it is best to forgo making any wishes for yourself and just release the genie. If you do this, you will always have good luck. But then he explained that there are different types of genies. Some genies, the black ones, are no better than demons. If that is true, then would it really be best to set it free? There is evil that cannot be captured; to contain even a part of its massive girth would be an accomplishment, so I'm all for keeping genies in their bottles. 

I understand that setting free a green or blue, or even a red genie might enable virtue. I guess what I saw at the Eddy house could best be described as a black genie. I can't be sure. Genies aren't actually different colors. It is their influence, their motivation, that betrays their color. Anyway, we all felt the genie before we saw it. The feeling was a cold, sticky dread that soaked into our bones, made them mush. Only the person who wielded the lamp could control the genie. But the genie also controlled her. And when she was in its clutches, her hair stood on end as if electrified, her eyes turned strange and dark, her words became demented, and her soul's hunger for power threatened to suck the marrow from our bones.

I was the only one who knew what we were dealing with. And I only knew because an old Vietnam vet had once told me about genies at the coffee shop. We never studied genies in school. Phantoms, phantasmagorics, shades, shrouds, ghouls, residuals, and on and on. What is the difference between a ghoul and a ghost anyway? A ghost was once human, a ghoul is a bad thought made real. We covered all of that in Paranormal Theory. But no genies; no unicorns, dragons, or goblins because those were all 'make believe.'

Thank goodness I had an active interest and a valid library card. And, you know what? I found out that everything that old vet said was true. And he was one who could tell a story. His name was Johnny and he hung around the coffee shop just like a lot of people did. I liked his stories and imagination, so I listened. On and on, he would tell war stories and ghost stories and hidden treasure stories to anyone who would listen. He annoyed some people, but I didn't mind. His conversation kept my mind busy and entertained on slow days, or days where customers were especially brusque and mean. Being a barista in Missoula is not, in any way, a rarefied position.

Anyway, I still have the flowers my old boyfriend brought me. They are dried out and fragile. It is hard to tell that they ever were beautiful and brilliantly red. They lost their fragrance years ago. Sometimes I will spray them lightly with perfume, so I can try to remember what they smelled like, how glorious was their hue of crimson, or how delicious it was to think that I was loved. 

I could say that the black genie killed him. Technically, it would be true. But I don't blame the genie, I blame the woman who wielded the lamp. And, probably worst of all is that she still holds that genie captive. As near as I have ever heard, even after all my research, no one else, besides her, has ever had possession of more than one magic lamp at the same time.


	3. Journal #2

Dear Diary,

"Ouija Board Removal Service"...Yep, that is what it was called. It was my brilliant idea for making extra money. I even made up flyers. I went to Denny's Copy Stop and printed them out on colored paper (even though color copies cost 15 cents instead of only 10 cents for white copies). I was flat broke, but still I was sure that the more eye-catching colors were worth the extra investment. 

I hung my flyers on bulletin boards wherever I could, especially down the hill at Bi-Lo and on-campus at the Student Union. I stuffed flyers between the pages of the Missoulian and the Missoula Codependent (down at Grizzly Grocery and the Good Food Store). It felt like I was making progress. I felt sure that people would call. And, I did get a few calls. Mostly, they were crank callers who would just laugh and hang up. Once or twice, the person pretended to be serious and then yelled 'Psych!' before the line went dead.

One woman did call, for real. But we spent a week haggling over scheduling and price before I ever even made it over there. By the time it was said and done, I felt like I had lost money. After much ado, she finally handed the thing over and paid me $20. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I still had to get rid of the damn thing! I guess it was a successful removal. After all, she never called back to say it had returned. You know, that can happen sometimes. We learned that in 'The History of Ouija and Seances' class. Anyway, my plan was a total bust.

In Missoula, sometimes you have to get creative to find a job. I remember applying at a coffee shop downtown and being told that they did not accept applications or resumes. Instead, you had to submit a creative project. I have to admit, I thought about it. I really needed a summer job. My idea was to make a cake with their logo on it. That was the best idea I could come up with after a couple days. 

It was going to take some effort and money to pull off, too; if I could manage it at all. I'm a pretty good cook, but I am not the best baker. Still, I can make a pretty good carrot cake from my mom's recipe. So, around the time I was putting together a grocery list, I realized it was maybe not such a stellar idea. Between the different food coloring bottles I needed, and cream cheese, sugar, eggs, a new cake pan; I knew that I would be spending too much money. Maybe someone had even done it before, I don't remember. However, I did realize that I had already wasted enough time and needed to get busy finding an actual job.

After I dropped out of school the first time, my parents refused to help me out. I think they said something about how if I was old enough to do something so stupid, then I was old enough to pay my own bills. No two ways about it; it sucked. Missoula is expensive, even more so if you are renting, because of the university. So, like I was saying, sometimes you had to be willing to get creative. All in all, it was a pretty dumb idea; I was just feeling over confident after getting an A in 'Paranormal Theory I.'

Oh, and I almost forgot, I was wrong. A ghoul is not a bad thought made real. I just made that up because I was too lazy to look it up. I mean, it's not a lie if you end up telling the truth, right?  
Anyway, ghouls are not like poltergeists at all. Poltergeists come from people, ghouls do not. They were never human, nor are they generated by psychics. 

Like demons, ghouls are their own thing. They are nocturnal and live in graveyards. Ghouls are especially ghoulish because they feed on the flesh of humans and corpses. They also steal money and drink blood. As near as I remember, you deal with them just like slugs: salt, and then more salt. And all blood drinkers have a sensitivity to silver, which I suppose can be helpful if you find yourself wandering graveyards at night. Anyway, I should have remembered. We learned all about ghouls and ghosts in Paranormal Theory II.

But ghouls and ghosts are just the tip of the iceberg compared to what else is out there: the things we never learned about in school, which brings me to "The Story of the Red Genie"...


	4. Journal #3

Dear Diary,

A CONFESSION: The Ouija Board Removal Service was not the only bad idea I had about how to make money. Truth be told, (and where else might I tell the truth, but here, dearest diary?), there were others; many others. Not of least note among these was my idea/fantasy that I might be able to write and sell a column.

To do this, I thought I might try a local paper. After all, how else do they find their local columnists? I figured it must just be an understood thing that if you had an idea for a column that you would just send it in, along with convincing examples of your ability to carry out said task. From where else would creative astrology and snarky romance advice find their footing and gain a following?

Anyway, at the time, I thought this was a great idea. I had my sights set on publishing a ghostly advice column. Surely, thought I, enough people have questions about the paranormal that a column like that might take root. You see, I have this rather stupid belief in the phrase 'if given a chance...'; again and again, I have used this phrase to justify doing some really dumb things. None of which, incidentally, ever made me any money. Actually, if I'm to be honest, they cost me money, as often as not.  
They also cost time; and, sometimes, dignity. I would have to say that this little column exercise cost all three. I had determined, and set my sights upon, the vaulted, and much admired, column section of The Codependent. Perhaps it will be easier, maybe I will get a better response, at a smaller, grassroots sort of paper? But, it was not to be.

A friend of mine had work study and worked in the UM computer lab. Yeah, my ID was temporarily not active, but she looked the other way if I brought her a coffee (which she wasn't supposed to have, but as I was saying, she did not run a very tight ship). So, for a couple weeks on my days off, I went to campus, bought a coffee at the UC Market, and made my way to the second floor computer lab. I spent my time there typing out my samples; the ones which I had spent many evenings writing in my notebook. Back to my point about cost, I had to pay for paper, just like everyone else; so, at this point. I guess I was out money on paper and coffee.

Not too bad, really. I'm happy to invest in a dream. Anyway, back in those days, they didn't swipe your ID on the UM campus bus, so it didn't really matter that mine was no longer good for any campus services. I took the bus everywhere I could any way. I had no money for a UM parking pass, or even to park downtown. I only drove where I had to. Just like everyone else, I avoided the traffic in Missoula, which is miserable. For me, and every other broke student, transportation boiled down to the bus and a bike. It was definitely a save-money-wherever-you-can type of lifestyle. Other than that, I must admit, I did put a lot of time and heart into those faux column samples.

Anyway, to make a long story short, the only light those samples ever saw is on my blog. I worked really hard on them, and really got my hopes up. When a letter came in the mail with a return address that belonged to The Codependent, I was almost beside myself. At first, I was elated, then I noticed how thin was the envelope. In my memory, it jogged the image of my high school counselor saying that a thin response envelope from a college usually meant you were not getting in.

Sure enough, three sentences to the effect of 'no', 'not interested', 'go away', and 'we would say thanks, but no thanks; however, saying anything nice might give you the wrong idea. Sayonara, stupid. The Editorial staff.' Now that I am recalling all this, I think I liked better the instances where I just lost time or money. I hated when my dignity took a throttling, too. These samples are posted on my blog, mixed in and among, the older entries. I have to admit that the whole idea was pretty fool-headed of me. More than anything, I think I was too proud of my A's in Ghost Analytics I, II, and III.

NOTE: "The Story of the Red Genie" will be delayed a week for research purposes. I want to know more about where the genie came from and why his magic lamp fell into my mother's hands.


	5. Ghostly Journal #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghostly Journal entries are transcriptions from Elizabeth Cavill's* auto-writing notebooks.

Dear Reader:

My name is Countess Erzsebet Bathory of Ecsed. I was born in the country of Hungary, and was named for my great, great grandmother. She also was born in those same lands, which my family held for hundreds of years, and even in the same castle. It was a beautiful castle. It would probably still be ours today, but it was destroyed, as was my beloved Csejthe Castle. 

I was known, in my time, as 'The Beast of Csejthe.' Today, there are those who would label me as the greatest female serial killer of all time. These days, I am most commonly known as Elizabeth Bathory. You may call me Erzsebeta, if you wish. It is a good mix of the high and the low. 

I have been known by so many names; from time to time; in different times, but I choose to speak to you now, as myself. Or, as best that I may make that happen. And I have a story to share with you. I was born in the mountains of Hungary at Ecsed Castle, near the town of Ecsed, on 7 August 1560. I had many castles, but it was always my special, magical retreat. Csejthe Castle is where I later made my home. Csejthe was less an open castle, and more a rugged, impregnable fortress. High up in the mountains, its cold gray stone walls held me in, and kept me safe. But this was a long, long time ago...

To be truthful, it has been a very sad and long silence. But, I was never really gone. None who have sinned so heavily get off very easily. Anyway, for the moment, I am inhabiting the body of a new servant, Elizabeth. Another of my own names, as it happens. The only thing to know about her is that she is a gifted psychic. And she made an offering, so that I might have use of her services. She seems honored to be my new scribe, which suits my purposes well enough; since a willing scribe is altogether better than an unwilling one. 

Still, it should be said, I have mastered a new language to tell this story. Granted, I had four languages already while I was alive, and I used them all, and often. Anyway, a fifth language is just another apple on an already overburdened cart. And, I had the time and will to do so. I am glad of my scribe, but the words are not so important, I think. It is the story that matters: A story I have waited so long to tell. 

But, first to practical matters: You see, a Countess is royalty. I come from a small, but important House in Hungary, the House of the Bathorys. In my time, the sixteenth century, I ruled with absolute impunity, as my family had done for generations. They say that madness - bizarre, ruthless madness - was the primary element in our veins; but, I think it is not so. I think greatness would be more correct. Perhaps even greed or vanity would be more correct; life was brutal in those days, and it made everyone a little mad. 

Missoula reminds me of Old Hungary, just a little bit. I never leave the Missoula Valley much; but when I do, the Sapphire Mountains never fail to remind me of the Carpathian Mountains in early Spring. But the journey is tiring. It takes me a long time to recover. Maybe I have stayed here because Missoula is my New Hungary; it is, after all, a new world. And I cannot imagine returning to the old one. I suppose I could, but why? To see old memories buried under new ones? To see my castles knocked down to their birthing stones? No, no, I shall never return. The journey itself would probably drain me back to being a shade (or near to it), and coupled with the inevitable heartbreak, surely I would blow away on the slightest breeze. But, the mountains, the mountains anywhere, you see, they never change. Even when you are a ghost, they never seem to change. Mountains may be the only things that change slower than ghosts. 

Anyway, it is important to understand that I was a Hungarian Countess in the sixteenth-century. I was a very important person. My corner of the world was all I needed, or so I thought, especially when I was young. I was very lucky in very many ways. You could maybe say I was born lucky, or born under a lucky sign; it is all the same. 

I gave birth to a son named Pal, and three daughters. As they thrived; we, Ferencz and I, made powerful alliances for them with all the great houses of Europe. I married a powerful and brave warrior when I wed Ferencz Nadasdy. He was a man who fought a thousand battles and never fell. He died an old man in his bed, telling his stories, which he loved to do. 

We shared many adventures: any flight of fancy we took into our minds, we could see it fulfilled. It was a heady high, especially when perched atop our mountaintop castle, Csejthe, high up in the clouds. We never believed our feet would touch the earth. I guess I should have seen it as a sign when we had to exchange several other castles to take possession of Csejthe. It was a hard bargain, but it was worth it. I never abandoned Csejthe Castle; sadly, now it only exists in my memory. 

I do not mean make it sound like I am the only old ghost around. There are others; many other ghosts, all different types with all different reasons for being here. But they are lost to their own memories, as I am to mine. Mostly, by now, they have all found their way to heaven. I still have some memories of them, those other old ghosts, so I guess they exist in a way. It is a question for another time though. What is important is that we, Ferencz and I, were part of the birth of a new age. That new age led to this new age. An age is not so much longer than an epoch, but nothing is as long as an eon, geologically speaking. I'm not eager to find out exactly how long an eon is, but I'm sure I will; moment by aching moment, forever. You will find that we ghosts are terribly preoccupied with time.

Anyway, the ones who are still around, the ones who also didn't get into heaven (and then forgot why) - the shades of the very old shades - they're around too, but I was never one of them. I simply pretended a time or two when it was convenient to my purpose. But enough about these trifles. Time grows short and we need to get back to the story. It is so much more interesting than this talk of the old, old days. All anyone needs to know is that honor and duty are what we passed down through our children; it was our gift to the ages, and maybe madness, too. And also, I suppose, our fears of the darkness, which still exist despite all the light that exists now. Amazing that darkness can still be so powerful in beautiful places like Missoula, or long ago in my beloved Ecsed Castle.

Missoula's network of underground tunnels held me in my dark despair when I first arrived. It was a cold, crisp, dank embrace, and somehow very comforting. Not comfortable, but when was stone ever meant to be comfortable? It is only meant to be strong. But, at least, the cold was without judgment, and so was the loneliness. Eventually, I emerged and have not felt the desire to travel on from the Valley. It is my home now. A home full of other ghosts.

I wish you to know these words are true. How can I express this? How can I convince you of my truthfulness? Even now, I can feel your doubt. My scribe cannot even hide hers. I shall say my truth as near to the old language as best I can manage. That is where I am comfortable, and time grows short, as is its habit, at least when you are alive. Even now I find myself falling further backwards, trying to find my old lost self among so many shades of the past:

I, Erzsebet of Ecsed of the House of Bathory, and also Countess Nadasdy of Csejthe; I, in addition to my brothers and sisters, have faithfully met my duty, and have borne one son, Pal Nadasdy, the youngest, and before him, three daughters; known by the names: Anna, the eldest; Orsolya, who came next; and then, my darling Katerina. The memories of them are all gone now. Even their portraits are gone; lost, damaged, destroyed, gone; as are those of their grandchildren, and, most likely, their grandchildren's grandchildren. 

I left that part of the world near a hundred years ago. But, regardless of their individual fates, their blood, to this day, flows strong, like deep wine, through the throne rooms of Europe. And, not incidentally, all the way down to the lowest, most meager servant. Any and all sacrifices made by me, or my family, were committed only in an attempt to further ennoble our name, and our glorious homeland. Even our words remain, in spirit and deed, 'If God is for us, who can be against us?'

It was our only mission: if we did not survive, we did not rule. Nothing is much simpler. We settled upon the business of keeping our own kinfolk seated on various thrones. Those seats were ours, and could not fall into the hands of our enemies; not for any reason, if it could be helped. Through fear and other means, to gather unto ourselves more and more lands and, therefore, more and more servants, we coveted and harvested our wealth. 

We, like the tales of dragons of yore, gathered our wealth into great, secret chambers buried deep within the precipices of mountains. Then, once it was secure, we delighted in the memory of the way it had all glinted so richly in the sun. Not that it would ever see the sun again. If you were foolish enough to reveal your treasure, you would not rule long. This was fed to us with our mother's nurse's maid's milk. Anyway, the best castles, like Csejthe were built well into the mountain. The very best ones had deep arteries that travelled relentlessly into the core of that great stone facade to hide wealth very, very well. However, you have to be careful what might already be there; you must be cautious what you might disturb. 

But life is always full of risk. In the old ages, those of gods and monsters; but, also now, in the current age. Some of the same rules apply, as they always will: You really only choose to cry, or to laugh while you cry. I think there are only three real prices for things: the price paid in blood, sweat, and tears; or the gold price (often mistaken for time's price). We, the Bathorys, our real wealth, our only real wealth, besides great flocks of servants, and villages, was our legacy. It was the chariot; we were the gods. Well, almost gods, as it turns out. It was easy to lose sight of where the truths of mortality really lay, especially deep in one's own catacombs. We sinned as only demigods may sin: grandly, stupidly, and very often, with spells and incantations and magic potions, but never with remorse. 

To us; to my Hungarian siblings and I; heritage and legacy were all that mattered. We had a war to fight. The ever present Turk alway threatened us, and our cousins in Transylvania. Only in Vienna was there real peace; but oh then, the politics. It was the same for everyone in our families, and in our time. In every great family, this was known. It was not questioned, not ever. There was no time for wasted, useless words. Vanity and philosophy went hand in hand for the rich; but, we encouraged deep suspicion of these things among the poor, while still indulging ourselves quite heavily, which as it turned out, was a mistake. 

Superstition was the contemporary religion in the sixteenth century. And, for a while before and after. Not surprisingly, we, the nobility, all knew each other, and we made these decisions, which determined many fates across the length and breadth of Europe. But we were raised to do so. The process made us monstrous; but, I think it was a necessary fault in the times when we lived. Anyway, I guess you could say that 'The Story of the Red Genie' is a story about one demigod who could not find his place in heaven. In time, he found an evil woman who had not managed to secure her own place in hell, however much she deserved it. And together, they wrote a page of history. 

In one breath, I danced in Vienna at a ball given by King Mathias. For dessert, we ate ebelskivers secretly sweetened with honey, and enriched with the essence of edelweiss flower (for long life). Personally, I preferred the calming effects of nightshade, but that is me. I came from strong stock, and we could not help our mystical natures; born as we were to a craggy wasteland, an eagle's nest raised up high, almost to the sun. 

Then, in the next breath, it all went wrong. The king lifted not a finger to save me from a most horrible and prolonged death. His only concern was that the story of my crimes would not affect all the nobility, as if it carried some disease that might dethrone them all. Although, to be fair, it was not so unusual an occurrence in those long ago days. History has had its say: It says I deserved what I got. If I am forced, once again, to confront and tell 'The Story of the Red Genie,' then I will also tell my own story of 'The History of Csejthe'.

All in all, perhaps I am the world's greatest scapegoat; the one who took the fall for all the ills of feudalism, you see. I suppose that, in this time, you are free to decide. When I died, I flew past the walls that were built to contain my spirit. During my long captivity, the mirrors grew tarnished, but I could watch myself change, and grow more decrepit. I was all that changed in that room. Now, I will never change again; only the scenery changes, and even that changes slowly.

 

Sincerely, and Ever After, Most Monstrously Yours,

 

Countess E. Bathory

Dictation, 13 Jun 1994

(1)

*Elizabeth Cavill is a major figure in this story.


	6. "The Story of the Red Genie: An Olde-Time Fairytale"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: The Boy Who Carried the Copper Coin

A long, long time ago, there was a prophecy whose dark promise was not yet fulfilled. Only one thing was certain: In the Year of the Reckoning, a dark deed would occur; a curse borne by a stranger would have the power to shape a dire future for the Kingdom of Hungary; maybe for the world. No one knew exactly when the Year of the Reckoning would be. Many tried to guess and they had always been wrong. 

In the Kingdom of Hungary, during the mid-years of the thirteenth century, the powers that were decided that there ought to be a castle built up high; an eagles nest in the clouds. It would be a watch tower castle; a stupendous sentinel to lookout and defend the vulnerable flank of their beloved homeland. This particular castle was to be situated on a high hill, far and above a certain village called Csejthe, which was seated at the foot of the mighty Carpathian Mountains. 

When it came to castle making, there were long-standing traditions. This was true in all the Kingdoms of Europe. In Hungary, this meant, as it always had, that the castle would be built on top of a tomb. Or, it might be more correct to say that the tomb came first, and then the blood, and then the stone. When these three were laid to their purpose; the foundation was then blasted, and cut out of the heart of the mountain. In time, this violence achieved a stony valley, the necessary platform on which to build a fortress in the sky. 

In the medieval Kingdom of Hungary, the long ago prophecy did say, 'forsooth, building a mighty castle dost requireth of its people a terrible sacrifice, ghastly and grim, to best protect the keep from danger, and secure its walls from within.'

As it happened, there grew near Csejthe village, in the Kingdom of Hungary, a certain flower, now known as the elusive Hungarian purple crocus. It bloomed, like the edelweiss in Austria, in only in one place: the lower foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, particularly on the tall hill, a foot soldier among generals, that towered near and above the village of Csejthe.

Csejthe did not see many visitors. People did not often travel to the lower foothills of the Carpathian Mountains unless they had a reason. The roads were dangerous; littered with thieves and cutthroats, highwaymen and gypsies. But the woods were more dangerous still. They were filled to overflowing with spooks and ghouls, and things that defied description. 

No one really knew exactly what haunted the woods. No one wanted to know. In Csejthe, it was the strange moans that emanated down from the wooded heights of the mountain that scared people the most. And they did not happen only at night. To live in Csejthe was to know that the eerie sounds that drifted down to them could happen anytime. The bloodless calls could even, sometimes, be heard during the day. On those days, the villagers abandoned commerce and fled to their houses.  
And so it followed that no one traveled the roads of Hungary for idle pleasure. Still, there were new faces to be seen. Usually, they belonged to traveling merchants or, occasionally, to bloodthirsty, invading enemies. Suffice to say the roads were not safe for anyone, at any time. Even great lords and ladies, counts and countesses, had to travel with a large band of armed soldiers. But, even with an army, no one traveled at night, not if it could be helped. No swordsman was a match for the things that crawled out from the trees at night. 

Since the roads were not safe in the Kingdom of Hungary, or any other place else in the known world, traveling was a mortal business. Still, some had an inexhaustible appetite for travel and adventure. And, there have always been those few others who may travel the world with ease. These lucky few possess wit and charm that can transcend custom. Usually, these few stay true to their fortune, and eventually gain the favor of the rich and powerful. Back even further, all the way back to the eleventh century, as often as not, travelers on the road to the Carpathians came from the Kingdom of Poland; which, in those times, was an even more ancient state than the Kingdom of Hungary.

One of these was a Polish boy named Sergei. He was a poet and a charmer, and his eyes were set on a wider world. When he was a young boy, Sergei heard the story of the edelweiss. In his young boy's heart, he wanted to pick the fabled edelweiss flower and use its magical power to find true love. But, as he got older, and the harshness of life settled over him like a mantle, he just knew he wanted to leave Poland. 

Cynicism and a few rough bouts had taught him that a better life may lay along the dual paths of charm and seduction. Sergei never forgot the story of the edelweiss, and as he planned his escape from a boring life, it occurred to him that Austria was as good a direction as any. Still, it would not be an easy task. The small, white edelweiss flower only grew on the near-unreachable slopes of the great Alps. 

Being a poet, Sergei was a collector of stories. He was also a harvester of hearts. And if the story of the edelweiss was true, then no one would ever be able to resist him again. And so, Sergei traveled to Austria, and climbed the mighty Alps. But, he was a careless creature and did not know that he was supposed to leave a gift in return for the flower. He only knew the broad strokes of an old legend: Edelweiss flowers were said to be the frozen tears of a cold and heartless fairy queen. 

It was all Sergei felt he needed to know; but, as with all things storied and legendary, there is always a hidden price. However, being no philosopher, he did not dig deep enough to learn that picking an edelweiss flower and not leaving a gift in exchange would, over time, cause the fabled magical blessings to turn into a heavy curse. Or, as a great wizard-philosopher once mused, "As the evergreen stem do give way to putrid black, so then the loving blessings imparted to such a beggarly soul become a most wicked and vile curse (A.D. 872)."

But that, to Sergei, was long ago, even though it was not really so. Scribbled thoughts from ancient minds which had survived the times were never of much interest. Sergei was an adventurer, not a student; he did not follow a story past the crux of its excitement. And, while he loved a good story, his soul was far too shrewd to ever truly believe in fairy tales. More so, his interest was in preying on the superstitious sentimentality of others. At worst, he figured, the flower would always sell whatever story he wanted to tell. Magic be damned, if need be.

So, blissfully unaware of his impending misfortune, Sergei turned his eyes towards the exotically savage lands of the Kingdom of Hungary. It was a big risk, but with the edelweiss flower securely tucked away in his pocket, he felt that there was nothing he could not do. It did not occur to him to worry that he was not a brave man; and that only brave men ever ventured to those rugged and brutal lands, although he was warned. He conjured from these tales that the air fairly rippled with a sort of bloodthirsty madness that turned men into monsters. 

Sergei smiled and nodded, drank his wine and inwardly believed that it was all hogwash; cooked up by weaker, less daring souls. It was unknown to him that the nights in Hungary were like a living thing, birthed by the utter blackness, and nursed by the moon. Full moons especially gave rise to freakish, pitchy nights when strangled calls and eerie shrieks echoed through the darkness. Only mornings brought relief, and even that was a mixed blessing. Mornings never failed to settle more work upon those worried souls, trapped as they were in their rattled cages. But, just as their ancestors had done, they carried forward and labored to eke a living from the stubbornly harsh, winter-worn dirt.

Sergei moved through this ponderous mist of palpable myths as unafraid as any who had come before him. In fact, he did better than most. When he grew lonely, he never lacked a companion for his bed. The women he seduced whispered charms in his ears while laying talismans for protection upon his chest. Men and women aplenty fell for his easy smile and foreign good looks.

But, in the Kingdom of Hungary, there was a strained desperation to the commonplace appeals for him to stay. He did not believe in their fears. He did not understand that they were canny survivors, unfazed by horrors that emerged from a brutal wilderness, and trained from birth to see with the third eye what was invisible to the first two. 

Some of Sergei's anxious benefactors stuffed valuables in his pockets, while others offered to pay for food and rest at an inn. It was in this manner that the blond-haired Polish poet with the blue, blue eyes, found his way to the village of Csejthe. As he passed along the roads, edging closer to the rugged Carpathian Mountains, he felt a strange pull at his heart. The feeling intensified until finally he arrived at the tiny frontier hamlet of Csejthe. 

At first glance, the bustling village seemed very familiar to him, even though he had never been there before. But this strange nostalgia did not just come from his own mind. As he drew further away from Austria, the stem of the edelweiss flower began turning from green to black. If Sergei had been more of a student (rather than just a collector) of stories, he would have known to bury the flower, and then kill a rabbit over the grave to satisfy the curse. But he did not know this, so as he traveled each day, the good waned, and the evil waxed. By the time Sergei arrived in Csejthe, he was the bearer of a powerful curse. 

It has been said that the most effective curses work through love, and use one's own heart as the assassin. This was no different for Sergei. Upon stumbling into the village, hungry and travel-worn, he was helpless to resist falling in love with the first girl he saw. She was nothing extraordinary, and usually, he would not have looked twice. 

From a glance, it was clear that she was neither beautiful or rich; and therefore, she should have been of little interest to Sergei. Love is blind, but unfortunately, curses are not. This village girl, Kiara, was plain, unremarkable, solidly built, and had long brown hair that she kept in a braid that reached to her waist. When she felt his gaze, she could not help but smile at the handsome stranger. In that moment, his heart was caught, and the terrible cycle of misfortune began. 

Throttled by Cupid's arrow, and not knowing what else to do, Sergei immediately blurted out the first thought that came into his head.

"Kwiat!" He announced loudly. 

It was the Polish word for flower. The girl heard what sounded like her name, but mixed with a grunt, and that was enough. The moment had happened and it had been logged in the stars. The world changed for Sergei when he saw Kiara. Abruptly, it then changed again when three men seized him, threw a rough cloth over his head, bound his arms, and half-walked, half-carried him to he knew not where.

This was not a typical welcome for a stranger to Csejthe. Normally, travelers were immediately robbed, then killed. Or, at least, that is how it was up until a century before Sergei's arrival. It was at that time that the village idiot was struck by lightning. It was the worst storm anyone could remember, ever. The foothills of the Carpathian Mountains were usually shielded from the full might of Zeus's wrath. But, on this occasion, the biggest fool of them all stood out in the rain, and declared that he was unafraid. 

Not a moment later, or so the story was told, a fiery bolt descended from the heavens and lit his hair on fire. Many in the village rushed into the rain to help, but they were too afraid to touch him. Little blue sparks lit from his fingers and toes. Only the priest was brave enough to pull the poor man's body up from the mud. So, in the rain and the muck, and with a head full of sparks, the village idiot cried out that a stranger would come and carry with him not the famed curse, but a remedy that could undue the dark prophecy they all feared. From that time on, strangers were welcomed with sacks, rope, and occasionally, nets. They were treated to hunger and thirst in an unused horse stall. The poor souls were left lying senseless on a bed of dirty, scratchy hay while the village elders discussed the question of their fate. 

In this case, Sergei had come to Csejthe with not only his traveling kit, but a strange, pressed white flower and a single copper coin from the Kingdom of Poland. In Csejthe, they were a superstitious lot, and the black-stemmed flower worried them. It was certainly, they argued, a bad omen. Being largely unschooled in the higher mysteries, the copper coin was dismissed out of hand as a trifle. However, the flower was discussed at length by the village council, and two possible solutions were heatedly debated. 

Some intemperate souls thought that the witch in the woods should be consulted. They wished to not interfere with prophecy, even if it meant courting disaster. The opposition would not hear it. The witch was unpredictable; she might turn them all into toads and steal the flower for her black magic spells. This argument hushed everyone in the room. They had all heard the stories of the witch and the ghouls who did her bidding. Only religious fervor and a favorable distance kept them all safe, and no one wanted to take chances. For a moment, it appeared that Sergei would be dead before sundown. 

Ultimately, no one wished to be responsible for being wrong; and thereby, causing the end of the world to come about. As the hours passed, this fear silently stalked their minds, preying upon their reason, until finally the council decided that they were unfit to interpret these strange signs. Two representatives from the village were selected to go to the witch, and explain their dilemma. The witch could decide what would happen next. This, the council could agree on.

The water never lied or so Darvulia, the witch of the woods, mistakenly believed. She knew they were coming. Darvulia knew it before they left the confines of the village; and, she knew it would be two. She had no love for the vision she had seen when scrying with the ancient bowl and water. For one thing, it was clear that a moment of great import was upon them. The water bowl needn't have told her anything, though. The signs had been gathering as thick as flies. It was a familiar intensity, as if the sun slanted differently to reveal an unseen web of perilous energy. Few would have noticed, even if they were schooled in forest magic, but the witch had seen it happen before. Not often, just once or twice in the five hundred winters she had lived. 

When Darvulia saw the edelweiss flower with the black stem, her heart turned in dismay. It was the omen she had waited her entire life not to see. She had not scryed correctly; she knew it then. If she had been more adept, she would have noticed that the elements were out of proportion when she saw the rain. Then, the rain turned green as it fell in a torrent around the pool where she dumped the bodies. The bodies of strangers come to the village who bore no unusual signs. A bag of gold she gave for each, and a price well-paid.

The green, she reasoned, was certainly the algae that grew over eyeless faces in that dead pool, or perhaps a warning: that maybe the foul mold would one day claim her, too. She had certainly put it off for a while. At worst, she thought that such an ill omen as green rain might mean that she was cursed herself, in order to pay for all the evil spells she had cast. It was impossible to say, and did not change the facts, anyway.

"Where is he?" She demanded to know, as her bedeviled brown eyes sparked with fiery rage.

The two council members sputtered and stammered, quite taken aback by this fearsome spectacle. They knew the stories and rumors about how she threw away the flesh and bones, but kept the organs. They had brought her the bodies (it was an old agreement), and so could not claim any innocence themselves. 

As if they were one, the two council members thought of themselves as witch fodder, if they should not be deemed worthy of the grave (or the trouble). That sent an icy chill down both their backs, making them each feel very brittle and weak. Another such glance might have caused them to break, so without delay, they poured forth the tale of the blue-eyed boy, the Polish coin, and the strange white flower with the black stem.

"Fools!" she screamed, incredulous at their stupidity, but excited at this turn to her advantage. "Now, I shall have to tell you what to do. And you must do exactly this, or else the whole world will fall down around us!"

The two council members listened intently, jotting down rude notes, and then passed to her a great white cock and brown hen, for her considerable trouble.

***

Only one thing did the witch positively know, even though her scrying was mal adept: The blond-haired stranger had to climb the hill that rose high above the village of Csejthe and pick one of the elusive Hungarian purple crocuses. What would happen next was the murky part for the old witch. 

Should the dead white flower (not known to her to be edelweiss) be left among the live purple crocuses? Somehow, that seemed wrong; a too extreme imbalance. Maybe the purple crocus should be plucked and the two dead flowers might then be buried together at the base of the hill, she conjectured. Or, perhaps the foreign boy should be killed and buried and his odd possessions gone with him, as if none of it ever happened at all? She licked her craggy, old lips at the thought. Surely, that would be easiest. But, would he be killed inside the village, or without? It was a mystery, even to her ancient mind. 

It was only the copper Polish coin that vexed her. If it had been two coins, one for each eye, his fate would have been easily sealed; and down the River Styx he would go. But, it was one coin, and two flowers; which meant an imbalance existed. Generally, imbalances indicated a continuance of things, perhaps a path to resolution; whereas balancing elements tended more to indicate a birth or a death. It was most vexing to her spirit, yet she had to feign absolute assurance. She could feel the two elder council members' eyes burning with questions, ready to drink in her words like a fine year's vintage of wine.

With all the odd signs swirling about, she could not know the real answer. But, there were other forces working against her. She was no great hand at the work it took to scry correctly, and her results were often muddled. Unfortunately, forest magic, and not knowledge-scrying, was her cup of spades. It was the method that she preferred. Cruelly, she liked to make the trees sing, even as she twisted them to her black magic purposes. 

But, it was not a time to indulge her doubts. Darvulia knew she had to act with absolute certainty. And, being a dishonest sort of person, she made her best guess. Then, she lied in eloquent and practiced fashion, and convinced the two elder villagers that her words were true. She told them that the boy must keep the small white flower and the purple crocus always on his person. 

In addition, he must bury the copper Polish coin in the spot where he picked the purple crocus; that is, if he survived being seen, but not taken, by the things that crawled around in the night. If he managed to not become food for the serpent's bloody jowls, leaving nothing behind; or, if his body was not found with his limbs torn from their sockets, as had happened before; or, if his mind did not die of terror, leaving only his body to stumble about blindly; then, upon his return, he must immediately be made a member of the village, and a leader of their community. This could only be accomplished by a certain ritual (common in the grand palaces in those days), which she knew, but should never have spoken about.

If he survived, Darvulia did argue, then his courage and luck would be beyond question. What further need to prove his true and noble right? Dispelling an ancient curse was no easy measure, even for kings. It was decided that he should marry a village girl; it did not matter who, and this was quickly agreed. 

But, as she further pondered; and while the two old council members waited, shifting from foot to foot, she decided that perhaps he should most properly be seen as 'cursed nobility'. One who would take the fall for the rest of them. But this latter, she would only share with the priest, her good friend, that he might correctly guide the sensibilities, and spiritual sensitivities of people who were accustomed to horror, but not heroes. No doubt, she would then have a much larger hand in village politics.

Darvulia knew that one last piece must fall into place before full advantage would be assured. She hesitated, struck with a sudden pang of guilt, before sharing this last piece of news. The two elder council men feigned to listen to her case, but their heads were swirling: it was a ritual that had not taken place in so long that it was practically a legend among the lesser people and hill folk in the Kingdom of Hungary.

Darvulia watched as the eyes of one elder changed from grey to green as she explained. Even though they only had a wreath of alder for a crown; if Sergei succeeded in his mission, then he would wear the alder crown, and be as a king for one day. In this crucial and grave business of diverting a foul destiny, no chances could be taken. Only an old and hallowed tradition would do. 

Darvulia knew that it was not her place to ask to be there as a witness, but she wanted to see his legitimacy physically confirmed, and so insisted on her way. The council men were not convinced. She did not reside in the village. She was a witch; reviled, ostracized, and yet, respected. Only the most senior members of the council would be present; and no more than six. For Darvulia to be there was a question of ethical appropriateness; but she had abandoned the hampering chains of decency long before.

There was also reason to suspect that it would bring bad luck, but Darvulia could not deny her pulse quickening at the prospect of what would take place. And who else would be there. With an unguent made mostly from virgins blood and toads tongues, she would appear once again to be young and beautiful. She and her lover would watch each other from across the purgatorial marriage bed. Later, they would each take a token from that room and, with their eyes filled to brimming, they would come together, and cast the needed spell to make the village of Csejthe truly impregnable, forever. It had to be. She had to win the argument. 

The signs were mixed, she argued; and received a meaningful glance from the council man whose eyes did not change color. Still, his cheeks flamed pink. He was no fool. But, there was a precedent: two hundred years before, she had joined the council in a time of spiritual despair. The price for her help had been a place on the floor of the council chambers. Even then, they would not give her a chair; for she had done far more evil than good. 

Therefore, Darvulia said, she could claim her spot when the alder crown was placed upon his brow. The two elders grumbled to each other about old mistakes, but finally relented. They agreed that she would be present for the crowning, and the bedding thereafter; that is, if the blond-haired Polish boy survived.

To be continued...


	7. Part 2: The Fight of Five Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I. The Boy

Bound and famished, Sergei awaited the fulfillment of an unknown destiny. His mind was nearly broken by wondering why such a terrible fate had befallen him. It was only clear to him that he had been ambushed, and was now being held captive in the village of Csejthe. As near as he could tell, he was laying face down in an empty barn. It smelled rankly of decay. The barn was also dry, dead dry, so that a single errant spark might have ignited an inferno. His mind seized on the idea of a fiery blaze, whose only warning would be a whiff of smoke. He shuddered to think of the whole building erupting into high-jumping, hungrily licking flames that would consume him and his screams as if he had never been at all. 

It would be fitting, his mad mind chanted. After all, his insides felt brittle, ember-dry, ready to blow apart like the chaff threshed from hulls of wheat. In truth, his body was not yet desiccated enough to burst into dry motes, and then scatter away on some arid plain. Skin that was sodden with sweat, filth, and his own urine, argued that he might yet rot before crumbling dully into dust. 

This contradiction of wet and dry miseries sharpened his blank anguish like a blade pressed to a whetstone. There was no absolution to be found in a gradual and comforting numbness: where one chafing extreme left off, another source of suffering continued on. To make it all worse, Sergei was not used to being unlucky (or even unhappy); and he did not handle it well. As best he could, he rolled and groaned, coughed and cried, but nothing helped. His own moldering condition made him weepingly nostalgic for the adventurous spirit that had filled him just a few days before. The days of sunshine and fresh air seemed a world away from where he now languished, unable to even breathe the shriven air without pain. 

A gag had been stuffed in his mouth, and practically down his throat, so that his nostrils had to widen dramatically for each dust-laden breath. Every time he succeeded in pulling oxygen past the horrid cloth and down into his lungs, he wished to die even as he labored to live. But, the ordeal did not end at the base of his throat where the air was free to fill his chest. His stomach ached in a torrent of hunger and nausea. Along the tracts of his insides, cruel, orange-tinged bile burned him raw, from belly to mouth. The wretched cloth sopped up this unbearable foulness as it rose from below, and then fluttered and scratched his tonsils, so that he thought he might go mad.

It never occurred to Sergei that this fate was beautiful; or, that even in all its awfulness, there was still hope. There was another possible fate, unknown to him: the one that Darvulia had arranged for most of the visitors who came to Csejthe. If that destiny had instead befallen Sergei, his sufferings would have been mitigated by a quick and unhesitating death, but his poor carcass would not have fared so well. 

With great efficiency, it would have been cleared of its organs. In fact, everything of value: bones, blood, ears (especially the precious, flaky wax) and even his fine, straight nose, would have been harvested to replenish the ingredients for the witch's evil potions. Not long after, Sergei's dead eyes would have found their rest, propped wide open, forever staring up from where his empty frame was sunk, a boulder in his belly, to keep company with all the other unfortunates in the densely evil slime of Darvulia's deadly green pool. 

Just then, another fit of sneezing assaulted him, causing his nostrils to flare and itch unbearably; and this, he decided, was the true misery. None of the other torments mattered so much, terrible though they might be. His lips were pursed and blistered, but he did not care. His body was bleeding from a dozen points, but he had taken worse beatings before. Even being unable to stop the flow of urine that wet his breeches, turning the dry dirt to foul mud, he knew, could happen to any drunk at any time. 

For the first time in his life, Sergei was helpless. He was being held at the pleasure of those who were known, throughout the whole world, to be monstrous and inhumane. He had endured a beating so savage that the veins in his eyes had burst, one followed by another, until the delicate sclera was a riot of red splotches. Gone were the splendidly blue, but chary eyes that had slain so many hearts. He had stared at his captors through eyes gone rabid; the puffed eyelids saturated with a chroma-metallic, violet sheen that made them almost impossible to close. The sight of him had made his captors queasy, and they had hurried to blindfold him. To them, peeping red orbs were what peered out from the forest at night; they had no place in the face of a man. 

But, his captors had tied the coarse fabric too tightly, and it puckered over his sensitive lids, while also digging painfully into the back of his skull. He could not sleep on his back, and he could only be comfortable if he rested on his side. But then the hellish splinters of dank, friable hay flew into his nose and pricked the sensitive cavity from within. Painfully, he sneezed against the gag, which threw him into spasms of frustrated coughing. His eyes burned, but refused to tear. The overwrought tear ducts were so clogged with dirt and blood that they hungered to fester. It was an agony as awful in its way as any wet and tender ecstasies had ever been delectably sumptuous or wickedly diverting.

Was this what he really deserved? Guilt was an odd emotion, common to most, but it had never taken root in Sergei's mind before. It pricked his conscience to think that he would do anything, even erase the wicked deeds of his past, to die another way. This realization came to him with great sadness. The fiendish acts he had committed had given him great pleasure; and he had been terribly proud of hoodwinking some, while seducing others. Sergei had only ever been a sensitive soul when it came to his own feelings. But, now he was covered in muck, and as good as dead; and a quickening desperation had sent his thoughts to flight. 

Hunger and thirst continued to war for his attention, each demanding to be sated, but he could do nothing to appease either one. Salty saliva, and the bitter aftertaste of the remains of what had remained of his last meal, soaked his senses in a rancid bouquet; and, all the while, the hateful cloth clung in humid distemper against the back of his mouth. The taste was as inescapable as it would later be unforgettable, and it was a constant and grim reminder that there was nothing left inside of him to satisfy the cold demands of pain. 

Fruitlessly, he sought the memory of past pleasures to assuage his current misery. But, the memories dissolved as soon as he could conjure them into a reasonable relief. Only the smell of manure lingered to color his reflections brown-gray, and render them devoid of meaning, as if they belonged to someone else. Mindfully, he wished away his remembrances, but still they persisted. He tried turning his thoughts towards accepting his fate, but in this, he failed.

Unbidden and dreadfully twisted, the memories visited behind his closed, gummy eyelids. The fantasies tortured and chafed him until everything he remembered was blighted by despair and stink. Truly, had he ever climbed the Alps, and breathed air so vividly translucent that it seemed to shimmer? And had it really been unclouded by a dark fog of filth? It was impossible to imagine. And, further, had he ever lain with a woman in clean hay? Or had he always been sheathed in a sickening mixture of dried shit and dank sweat? It was hard to remember anything good; nothing was left untarnished by his moldy blue ruin.

As the hours dragged on, his memories became ever more sodden with stench and sadness. Soon enough, they began to ooze like a putrefying sore. Old lovers grew the heads of monsters, chillingly foreign and grotesque. His cock broke off in the mouth of a whore who then laughed at him. The blessed edelweiss grew into a dreadful beast with the head of a flower and the body of a dragon. It devoured him whole. He tried to scream in a raspy, toneless voice, but was choked silent by a thick cloud of dust. 

All of this suffering worked great hardship on Sergei's normally happy and frivolous soul. He had never been thoughtless enough to give away his heart, so his soul had never been tested to endure brutal uncertainty. And this unfamiliar sorrow, when paired with the physical nightmares of the damned, resulted in an excruciating numbness, broken only by bright flashes of fresh pain, barely recognized by his sluggish brain. At the worm-worn base of his existence, he only remembered how to suffer, and to cry. 

Through broken eyelids, the slack tears dashed dry salt into the fetid weave of the blindfold. And, for all their genuine sorrow, the rancid tears burned, and caused him to choke and sputter in desperately quaking, unheard sobs. He felt like he was swimming in a pool of brackish deceit, spun into existence by all the bad things he'd done. In that low place, the questions came thick, and remained unanswerable: Why could his death not have been quick? Why all the pain before dying? He had only thought about death once or twice before. and only for a moment. 

It had always been possible that he would die at the hands of an angry husband, or maybe even a spurned lover. There had also always been the risk of a swift slice across the throat if the wrong person caught him cheating at cards. Such ends were an accepted part of doing business when one lived a nefarious life. After all, he had seen it often enough. In those days, everyone had seen poor fortune meet with a violent end. But Sergei had never been fool enough to mistake his pretty luck for the dried-out shams that killed others. He was far too clever, too beloved by all, to suffer as others did, and certainly not more so. It was so unfair; and this was all he could think, over and over again. 

Time ticked on, leaving him in a purple-tinged haze, somewhere between the gnashing jaws of misery and the scattered solace of sleep. As the hours lengthened, the cold deepened and it was harder to sleep. With his hands firmly bound behind him, he struggled like a dumb worm looking for any source of warmth, but to no avail. After a time, he lay still, chilled past thought, and sensible only to the sound of his own teeth chattering. Then, just as quickly as his ordeal had begun, it came to an end. 

Awakened from a dark and dreamless slumber, Sergei was grabbed up and set unsteadily on his feet. Before he knew what was happening, the bonds were cut away, and brisk hands began pulling the soiled patchwork of garments from his battered body. Sergei swayed drunkenly, but the coarse hands and unfamiliar voices did not stop for a moment. The choking gag was pulled from his throat, causing him to double over and retch violently, but not productively, into the dirt. 

As soon as he recovered, and again stood blindly upright, the intruding hands were once more at work. Once he was completely naked, a shock of cold water was poured over his head and left him shaking and coughing. An old rag passed over him, and the blindfold was finally removed, so that his hair might be washed. Sergei's translucent eyelids puffed and swelled like those of a toad; and dried blood dripped to mix with the sweat, salt, and water that ran down his chin. 

The foggy haze that had replaced his normally clear vision betrayed only the blurry image of a small, stout person, whose back was curved like a length of catgut whipcord. If Sergei's broken eyes had been better, he would have seen that Darvulia was not so much bent at the center as she was stooped like a dwarf. And the sight of her was especially ghastly to those who were unaccustomed to witches. In her true form, she was an ugly, old hag with long, thin white hair that straggled on down past her waist. Even worse, her haggard face was almost featureless beneath mounds of cascading wrinkles, which quietly bespoke the malice of centuries. She was a terror as scary as any the forest could belch forth, but the villagers had developed a tolerance to her by way of a long and fearful association.

Unknown to Sergei, an important meeting concerning the prophecy had taken place. And, once it had met its conclusion, Darvulia had found her way to the unused horse stall where Sergei had been thrown after his crude interrogation. The old witch seemed unconcerned with his dazed state of frigid shock, and continued to move with a metered, but uneven and heavy shuffle, as if she favored one leg over the other. But, whatever the lame weakness was, it had not traveled to affect her hands. They were as strong of grip and sure in their ministrations as any he had known. And, if his nudity bothered her, she did not show it.

With abundant patience, her gnarled fingers slowly pressed salt into the tender pores all along his brow, over his nose, and down his chin to round his neck in loops. Then, she set her attentions to the bony ridges of his shoulder blades, covering them liberally. And, from there, her bony fingers moved down his sides to his hips, and then once over and into his navel. Next, she turned him round to cover the bumpy vertebrae of his spine, up and over each, in its turn. Then, she pulled up one foot and then the other, straining his dizzy balance, as she treated the soles of his cold-bitten feet. And, finally, she resumed her accustomed stoop to flick aside his protruding manhood with her thumb, and use her fingers to rub more salt behind his scrotum. 

Once she had finished, Darvulia finally felt satisfied. She had covered all his juiciest bits as well as she could with her ever-dwindling supply of sea salt (a rarity so far inland). In body, he was as ready as he would ever be. With a nod of her head, Darvulia signaled that a rough but clean tunic should be pulled over his head; and then rough-woven woolen breeches were passed over his legs to hide his prominent nudity. Once again, his hands were quickly bound, and he was pushed through a door whose outline he could barely see. 

Into the cold night air they trudged; and Sergei was almost grateful for the rough brutes who half-walked, half-carried him to another coarse wooden building. As they entered, the chill was hardly cut by being inside, and a brief note of relief passed unsung. The cold and torment had sapped his strength, but his eyes were beginning to focus. The images were muddy, as though seen through the lens of a dripping kaleidoscope, but they gave him some small grasp on reality. 

Inside the nondescript and vacant room, he could make out four silhouettes; but the silken night seemed to swallow their edges, lending them a ghostly appearance. The dim and faceless figures were lit only by one small candle in a corner of the room. He gazed at the ominous specters from where he knelt, and his fear was spiked by the leaden chill in the room. His knees were bruised and bleeding from where he had been thrown forward with deliberate velocity to land hard in the dirt, only managing to not land on his face by a miraculous feat of instinct and balance. 

Sergei tried to right himself, but his knees shook terribly, and he made a poor performance of it. An impatient foot struck out from behind him, and kicked his sorry form back to the dirt with surprising strength. Once again, he landed hard on both his knees. Large rosettes bloomed under the skin in motley shades of red, purple, and blue, and his legs began to ache unbearably from their bent position. It was then that Darvulia moved out from behind Sergei to join the others. Like them, she had donned a black cloak to better blend in with the night. And, under the low hood of her cloak, she smiled her ugly, toothless grin. 

Physically, Sergei was strong, healthy, and he smelled pleasantly of mossy earth and sun-kissed violets. It reminded her of the thick undergrowth of a forest when the sun calls the blooms to life. Yes, she mused, he was a fine specimen, and handsome too. His earthy smell appealed to her sensibilities as a forest witch; and, in a moment of weakness, her withered husk of a heart almost pitied him his fate. Although, one way or another, she would find a way to benefit from his life, or his death. But presently, it was her job to prepare him for what was to come. 

For their part, the other council members wanted nothing more than for Sergei to be gone, and away on his journey. There was a tangible anxiety in the air as they waited for Fate's hourglass to tip. Before guiding him to the door, Darvulia again crossed the noiseless room to where he knelt, hobbled and humbled. With an old, ceremonial dagger, curved on the end to look like the hooked tooth of a shark, she cut his bonds. Then, her wizened hands reached within the folds of her cloak to extract a small, corked bottle. 

In the next moment, Sergei could see her long, black nails coming towards his damaged eyes like begrimed adder's teeth. He flinched, but was too frightened to do more to try and stop her. Darvulia's skin was old and parched, so that her wrinkles lightly crinkled as they rubbed the strange, cold unguent into and around his sorely battered eyelids, brow ridges, and cheek bones. Her touch reminded him of the feel of a dead onion skin; and the faint sound was like that of an onion skin being peeled away from its moist, aromatic orb. It sickened him. Everything about her sickened or unnerved him. 

As her muddled image sprang into specific relief, Sergei saw his fears realized, and felt his stomach churn in disgust. He had not imagined that anyone could be so old or so ugly. She was twisted and gnarled; knotted like an old oak, and squat like a stump. Her skin was a sickly shade of grey, and haunted by large, mottled brown spots. Upon her cheek, a cavernous pitted wart marred the fall of wrinkles, and from it many thick grey hairs sprouted. Sergei wanted to vomit, but his insides were wide open and empty, and could only manage an insubstantial yellow film that crawled up his throat and gagged him. Fearful for his life, he swallowed the impulse to retch, and his skin flushed to a stricken shade of green.

Suddenly, her old fingers wound around his arm like a creeper. Once again, he regained his wavering balance, but the sensation was revolting. It was a like a corpse had just wrapped its bony fingers round the points of his own hard-driving, and uncertain pulse. But, the spinning pinwheels of light had gone from his sight. And, in spite of himself, Sergei felt pleased that the witch's unguent had worked. Truly, his eyes had never worked so well. With only a flickering flame to perceive by, he watched as the disparate fractals of light dispelled the viscous black density which had engulfed him. Shapes resolved from the formless night with stunning clarity, and each seemed to glow and flicker with its own wan halo. 

He shook his head violently, thinking that hunger had him seeing stars. Then, Darvulia gave him a knowing glance, which he tried to ignore. Since his coming, she had not been idle. In preparation for this moment, she had mixed up many peculiarly powerful potions. One was used in the making of a solid and flaky hunk of bread, which she handed him as they walked outside and into the open air. Another magic potion had been added to the flagon of wine which she also presently handed to him. Sergei had not spared a moment before setting in to devour the hearty loaf of yeasty pastry with a ravenous ferocity. He barely paused to swallow before pressing the flagon to his lips, and sucking down every drop of the strong drink. 

Wine dribbled from his chin as he gulped it down with impolite abandon. The ferment was robust, and sweet. His tastebuds were awash in swirls of complex and heady undertones, which the volcanic soil and noble rot imparted to the Hungarian Tokaji wine. He could almost taste the fungus-cooled cellar which imbued the grapes with their uniquely spicy notes. Sergei knew nothing of flavor structure or vintage, but he knew that he liked the Tokaji wine better than the stout red wine, known as bull's blood, which was what the inns along the road served to traveling strangers. 

When he finished, Sergei carelessly wiped the trickle of reddened saliva from his chin with the sleeve of his tunic. The alcohol had calmed his senses; and his overfilled belly saw fit to confine its upset, and set about digesting the unexpected bounty. After a moment of nausea, he let out a loud, wet burp, and then his insides were satisfied to settle. Darvulia knew it was time. The Year of Reckoning was upon them. Finally, the stage was set for her to explain to Sergei his mission, and offer the advice that would keep him safe against a thousand terrors, none of which she dared tell him about. 

Using juniper berries, rat ears, ground snail shells, snake scales, several drops from a precious bottle of screams, and many other rare and ghastly portents, Darvulia had brewed the most important potion: a spell of understanding. Once she had drank this potion, she could speak to any person of foreign tongue and be completely understood. The magic would only last so long as the strength of the screams could hold out; and for this, dying screams were best, since they were the most passionate and tended to last the longest. But, virgin screams were also very valuable, since purity tended to add volume and timbre to an otherwise mediocre scream. For this potion, Darvulia had used only her finest screams. 

As much as possible, she had held her silence, refusing to waste a single word, but now the time had come. A brief few minutes later, Sergei no longer felt like a dejected outsider. Darvulia was cryptic in her explanations, but he understood that he had been chosen. He was a man on a mission and, as such, he wore the clothes of one of their own. The witch did not believe it was important to tell him the reason for his mission; and it pleased her that he did not seem to care to know. 

What mattered most to Sergei was the prize that awaited him if he succeeded. Temptation overthrew resentment as he listened to Darvulia's words, and his mind was flooded with images of limbs twisted together in a haze of torrid delight. The memory of his recent captivity (and any thoughts that would have advised caution) were eclipsed by a newfound and heady anticipation. His feet itched to begin, and his loins throbbed with the prospect of wedding and bedding the simple and wide-eyed Csejthe girl he knew only as 'flower.'

 

To be continued...


	8. Summary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The Story of the Red Genie: An Olde-Time Fairytale'
> 
> Part 2: The Fight of Five Monsters
> 
> The Boy
> 
>  
> 
> NON-EXPLICIT Content Summary

11th-century Hungary:

Sergei, the wandering poet, arrives in the remote mountain hamlet of Csejthe. No sooner does he set foot in the village, then he is arrested and drug away. A search of his belongings reveals a small white flower with a black stem, and a copper coin (from his home country of Poland). Unfortunately for Sergei, the words of a dreaded prophecy hang heavy in the air. Like dark clouds, they forewarn of a desperate future. In the Year of the Reckoning, a curse borne by a stranger will have the power to change everything, forever and for the worst, in the Kingdom of Hungary. 

The village council in Csejthe is keenly alert for any bad signs or ill omens, especially those found on strangers. After being bound and severely beaten, Sergei is thrown into an unused barn. While he writhes in misery, the village council meets to decide his fate. In this endeavor, they are guided by the 500-year-old forest witch, Darvulia, who is very crafty (and has her own reasons for wanting to keep Sergei alive). After some time passes, it is decided that he will not be killed. Thanks to Darvulia, the council is convinced that keeping Sergei alive might avert the dreaded prophecy. 

It is agreed that Sergei will complete a dangerous mission to save Csejthe (and the rest of the Kingdom of Hungary). When the meeting concludes, Darvulia, and two others return to the barn to unbind, strip, bathe, salt, and clothe him. When they are done, Sergei is carried away to another secret council meeting. Once there, his bedraggled form is shoved to the dirt in front of several cloaked and hooded council members. 

It is not long before the assembled members agree to allow the strong and handsome Sergei to undertake his mission. Despite all the risks, he must climb the high mountain and pick a certain good luck flower. The evil witch, Darvulia, believes that if Sergei picks this lucky flower (a Hungarian purple crocus), then it will balance out the bad omens that he has brought with him to the village. 

However, Darvulia is no expert in prophecy-meddling, or undoing. Despite her bravado, she has only the slightest notion of how to undo a prophecy. But, the council members do not know this, and they believe every word the evil witch says. It is no secret among the villagers that Sergei will probably not survive his ordeal. The mountain, and its adjoining waves of haunted forest, contain death in a thousand forms. 

Luckily, Sergei is a stranger, and knows nothing about these terrors. And Darvulia has done everything in her power to be sure he doesn't find out until it's too late. Through her, and only her, Sergei learns about his mission. The forest witch is the the only one who can speak to him. She has taken a weak potion of understanding, and must choose her words very carefully. As the moon rises, Sergei is no longer afraid, and feels excited to begin his mission. 

Darvulia promises the boy that upon his return, he will marry a village girl named Kiara. Because of the curse, Sergei fell in love with Kiara the first moment he saw her. As long as he marries a Csejthe girl, it is of no particular importance to the council which one he chooses. This is all Sergei wants, and he asks no further questions. He does not know that if he lives, he will only be a pawn of the witch, the priest, and the village council. After his torment, Sergei is content to feel happy and blessed. After all, he has always been lucky. 

Unknown to Sergei, all of this sudden good fortune is only an illusion. The prophecy is true, and he is the bearer of a powerful curse. There is nothing that can be done to change it. From the moment he left Austria, his fate has been decided. Foolishly, he chose to steal a sacred edelweiss from the slopes of the Alps (and not leave a gift in return), and now the magic in the flower has turned black and sinister. 

As Sergei climbed the Hungarian foothills to Csejthe, he kept the evil, black-stemmed edelweiss in a pocket tucked right above his heart. It was this cursed charm that caused him to fall hopelessly in love with Kiara. Now, a perilous wheel has been set in motion. One which will doom the fabled Kingdom of Hungary. At the close of this chapter, the sun has set on the first day of the dreaded Year of the Reckoning. As Sergei and Kiara struggle to survive, they have no idea that their love will unlock the ancient and terrible prophecy.


	9. The Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The Story of the Red Genie: An Olde-Time Fairytale'
> 
> Part 2: The Fight of Five Monsters
> 
> II. The Girl

While Sergei writhed in a barn, Kiara also suffered deeply. However, her ordeal was not inflicted by strangers who lived in a remote mountain village, far, far away from the life she had known before. Instead, it was her own family, the people she had known all her life, who brutally cast her out. Without pity, they froze her from their hearts, and denied her any home among them.

Ever since that fateful afternoon, Kiara had been held in the old apothecary's shop. It was the most haunted building in town. For two hundred years, the dust had lain undisturbed, and thickly gathering. Cobwebs had also built up around the doorway like a silver net. Fear enshrouded the building like a dark aura. A whole mythology of stories had sprung up around it. These replaced the flowers which refused to grow anywhere near such a desperate and haunted place.

No one knowingly went within ten paces of the building. Just drunks and fools who were never suffered to live long in Csejthe anyway. Two unlucky guards had been chosen for the duty of escorting Kiara to the aged building. They shook when they were called upon to do their duty, but recovered, and moved ahead with a grim and solemn determination.

It was a silent walk. The whole village was silent, even the birds had ceased their chitterings in the trees. It was an eerie silence that was then abruptly shattered. A loud crash awakened the sleepy and apprehensive village. When the guards broke down the door, the whole building shook as if might fall down upon them, and the weathered door roared like a tiger in protest. However, the evil thing inside expelled a huge sigh of relief.

From that sigh, ancient dirt exploded from the doorway like a bomb. The guards did not hesitate a moment before shoving Kiara into the filthy cloud that swirled with waves of grey and brown motes. Instantly, they were all sickened by the stench of the blooming mass of dust, and fell to their knees in fits of choking gasps. But, it was far worse for Kiara. 

Her stockinged knees scraped to a hard stop on the entrance stones, cut clean and deep by shards of ancient glass. Blood spread like paint from a motley brush to dye the worn blue wool of her skirt. Pain erupted from the twin long gashes in the same moment as the broken down, old pine door slammed shut so hard it quivered on its unsound hinges. The next sound she heard was the pins of the heavy iron lock, which had kept the town believing itself safe for two hundred years, turning and fastening her firmly within. 

The air was putrid, and full of hidden dangers. Suddenly robbed of daylight and fresh air, her pink lungs were driven red and near to bursting. She tried to call out against the stifling grit that choked her senses, but there was no one to hear. The two guards had run away as fast as their legs could carry them; not a thought in their minds except saving their own scared hides. In truth, they had little enough reason to fear. 

They had not stood in the doorway long enough to catch a ghost. While the abandoned building was haunted, a dire and seething haunting, the real danger was long gone. What was left was nothing more than the restless whisperings of old, abandoned spirits. They had grown powerful and grasping in their abandoned seclusion, but were nothing especially unearthly. The same could not be said of the curse that had originated there. Luckily, after two hundred years, there was no breath left in the legendary Wailing Curse of Csejthe. 

And so, over the course of two days, which seemed more like two years, the village council dithered and thithered, fretted and frayed, and accomplished absolutely nothing. When talking finally failed, leaving the council members' throats sorely numb, they took to their feet, and went frantically and pointlessly about the village, turning over rocks, hustling and bustling, buzzing like bees, but it did little good. No solution could be found. 

None of them wanted to talk about the curse (and even less about the dreaded prophecy) for fear of their voices giving it re-birth, and it infecting the village once again. After a day spent thus: fully wasted from sunup to sundown, the only point that could be agreed upon was that Kiara, the simple village girl who Sergei knew only as "flower," was their real problem. Once spoken, many nods of agreement accompanied this sentiment. 

It then followed naturally that the council members could agree that the blond-haired stranger was truly, and most likely, just an ill-starred inconvenience. After all of this was heard, an audible sigh of relief echoed hollowly through the council chambers. Unfortunately, the moment of respite did not last. 

All at once, and all as one, there was a sudden intake of breath as another thought occurred. But, exactly what kind of breathtakingly ill-starred inconvenience might he be? It was an odd duck of a problem. Everyone could agree on that. But, it was not enough to admit helplessness in the face of such a ruthful conundrum. 

Answers were needed. The council struggled with questions of the future, brief though it might be. It made the wonder what could be done to bind off such bad luck? How might it be prevented from wandering into their midst again? What might Darvulia have to say? Once these questions were asked, they were out in the world, and could not be taken back. 

Another couple hours of talking yielded the idea that the boy was a problem like a bunion. He was no longer Sergei, son and grandson and brother of long-established Polish shoemakers, known far and wide for the quality of their crafts. He was no longer even a handsome, but unlucky stranger. In their eyes, he was best understood as an unnatural (and very unlucky) bone growth. As a bunion, the answer to Sergei was comfortingly simple. Such an injury simply needed to be set aside, then broken, re-set, and forgotten entirely once healed. 

Either that, or chopped off at the root. But most liked the idea of simply setting and forgetting. Unfortunately for Sergei, since he was not from Csejthe, he had no say, and no one to speak for him. He was nothing more to the council than an unwelcome dog. Their stymied solution to Sergei was the last positive answer that could be found by the village council. After several more hours, they finally yielded to the idea that the witch would have to be called.

The next day was spent mostly in manic chatter while they waited, and then waited some more. The council members' humble minds were beginning to grasp that their talk was bordering uncomfortably near to prophecy-meddling. An hour or so of silence followed the voicing of this idea. Uncomfortable, fidgety, and worn into a fearful hush, they awaited Darvulia. But, it took almost a full day to fetch the witch, and there was nothing else to do. They were imprisoned in the council chambers, and boredom drilled into them like termites.

They languished, and twiddled their thumbs, and tried to keep their minds busy, but eventually the wait turned their thoughts to gossip and idle speculation, which had to be discussed. Most of this talk centered on the look that had passed between the two young, would-be lovers. It was difficult to ignore, especially in a place so drably grey. The moment had been quite unforgettable. It was as if he had been struck by lightning and she, the swirling storm. 

This thought seemed to take all in the room at the same time, and caused a deep blush to rise, but the blush faded to resentment, since most could never claim such a moment themselves. Before and after, the villagers had loved Kiara, and wanted the best for her. But those days were over. She had become a person of suspicion, mixed up with random and severe misfortune. It was too unusual, too uncomfortable to bear. 

Her fate was sealed, her family ruined. That was all that mattered, no matter the color of the final portrait. It was a matter of strategy and fate to decide what needed to be done next. And, being thus, the council decided, it was all best left up to the witch. None of this helped Kiara, who sat cloaked in grey as the old thatch roof sifted down centuries of sediment onto her head. And the filthy shroud carried her thoughts close to the grave. 

Being from Csejthe, she knew that the best she could hope for was exile. It was a laughable thought. Exile was only a death sentence in disguise. It was said to be a mercy- being sent into the woods with one day's worth of water and food, but it really just prolonged the punishment. Death was certain. No one could survive a night in the woods alone. No one ever had. 

It was only a matter of whether the witch, the bears, or the monsters got a fresh, warm body first. Starvation was kinder, and she tried to settle her mind that the rolling in her stomach was really for the best. However, this did not work. It only made her hungrier. On pins and needles, she awaited the council's verdict; all the while knowing that it didn't really matter. 

What she could not know was that, for all their hemming and hawing, the council members could not actually bring themselves to kill her. But, this did not mean that she was ever meant to survive. Still, as if suspended by magic, the brutal edge of the axe refused to fall. Her head remained on her shoulders, sunup to sundown. 

Sometimes, she could almost imagine an axe hanging in the warped rafters high above her head. The axe was very much like the sagging thatch roof, she decided. All her life she had marveled that it was always seemed ready to collapse, but never actually did. At this, she knelt down, clasped her rough hands together, and prayed.

***

In misery, the two would-be lovers waited while time refused to tick forward. A nameless Sergei was left entirely alone to dessicate on the hay. And while Kiara lingered in hearts and memory, she died a slow death from heartbreak. Meanwhile, the callous council wasted time. They hurried to wait for Darvulia to take her seat and tell them what to do. And, all the while, in a haunted shop, not a stone's throw away, the memory of an old curse fermented around a fresh body. 

For the girl, it was a cold and desolate fate. No comfort or thought for her care had been provided. The only coverings were blankets of ancient dust, left undisturbed so long that they carried their own memories. Her only pillows were cracked urns filled with the tinny residue of old black magic. These rattled with the brittle skeletons of long-dead vermin when she pulled them down from their crumbling shelves. 

It was her lot, she decided. There was nothing more to be done. She settled her mind to the fact that It was as simple as having stepped out into the sunlight on the wrong day. Resigned, Kiara accepted the heavy hand of destiny, and willed her soul away. But, sleep was cruelly absent, leaving the wheels of her mind to spin in dark circles. Left in silence, she breathed in ghosts, and breathed out regret.


	10. The Merchant and the Moon

Spring, 1084

It was a dark and mysterious time in the tiny mountain village of Csejthe. Ever since Kiara had been arrested, the villagers’ clocks had refused to chime their chords at the proper time. A very bad sign, everyone agreed, but then thought no more about it. There were far more important concerns. In fact, all commerce had stopped as the villagers gathered outside the old apothecary's shop. 

They had set aside chores, and every other part of their normal routine, to keep an unsilent vigil around the haunted building. For her part, Kiara could only lie in her boarded-up, fall-down confinement, and listen to the footsteps outside. Alone or in small groups, they gathered and dispersed, came together and fell asunder like the shuffling of cards.

Luckily, for the first couple days, the murky glass kept their over-curious eyes from piercing too deeply into Kiara’s prison. However, beyond the worn-out walls, she could hear their feet shuffling, and their ever-constant mumbling. She knew they couldn't be talking about anything else. They were talking about her, what had happened, and what it all meant. 

Only the occasional word penetrated. Mostly, the villagers just stared, agog at the decrepit shop and the strange reversals of fortune it housed. This was especially unusual because the villagers made a custom of never looking at the ghastly, old building. Certainly, they had never before had an excuse to parade their own good fortune before it like roosters. 

On the first day, the hobgoblin of murmurs refused to die down until sunset. As darkness fell, the footsteps began to trail off, and Kiara was engulfed by a feeling of panic. In all her life, she had never been so afraid. And, even though they had tormented her all day, she could not stand for everyone to leave. The villagers went home to safety and left her all alone. 

When they were gone, and faster than she would have thought possible, the deep mountain chill of late evening gripped the little village. With no way to make a fire, Kiara clenched her grimy arms, trying to draw warmth from where there was none. It did no good, and she soon began to grow as cold as a statue. Still, the warm aura that surrounded her pulsed with vitality and drew the dreary phantoms near. 

Kiara’s whole life had been spent among spirits and their complex lore. She knew spells to weave against them, but she was helpless to do so in the abandoned shop. With no tools available, only her knowledge allowed her to judge the type of threat they posed. She knew how to guess ghostly forms by feeling. She also knew that the smells of sulphur, or earth, could betray what type of spirit had manifested.

In the darkness, she did not even have to see the faint iridium glow to know that each of them was uniquely terrible. The spirits had grown powerfully ugly and misshapen during their long, lonely confinement. Yet, for each strongly realized ghost, there were others who had been starved back to pinions of smoke lit only by an unearthly, phosphorescent glow. 

Silently, the ghosts emanated from the floor, then the walls, and finally the corners. Soon enough, Kiara was surrounded. There was no escaping them. She could feel their terrible, dripping hunger. Even so, all the energy they collected went to the one who controlled them all: the opaque black shadow that lived in a high corner. Eager to feed their master, they came as one and reached for her. The black shadow never moved from its corner; it never had to.

She felt the constant gathering and dispersing of shades from the high corner like cold, passing winds. Unlike its minions, the horrible black shadow stayed awake during the day. It listened to the whispers outside right along with her. It heard better than her, and it played on her fears all night. Kiara tried to remember that the ghosts were only ash, while she was blood. They could drain her energy, but they could not actually kill her. They could only make her forget that she wanted to be alive.

Her days could not have been more dim, nor more full of bitter disappointment. During the ceaseless ebb and flow of misery, the other villagers were not idle. In every home, spells of protection were spun against her malignant presence. As the spells took hold, Kiara lost the will to move or even to remember. Soon enough, warmth receded along with every other happy memory. 

In her dreams, she could see a blazing fire and strong walls, but she could only feel the blistering cold. It scored her parched bones, accentuating the hunger that ravaged her insides, and made her wish to die. In Csejthe, it was a pallid freeze. The late spring snows had not yet arrived, and the days were still mild. But, with walls no thicker than parchment, every draft found her as she shivered miserably on the floor. 

When she was awake, Kiara could not help but dwell on the ends she had seen befall others, and then imagine such a fate for herself. In the Kingdom of Hungary, executions were commonplace. Unfortunately, the village council was also spending their time imagining her end. Some intemperate souls, who let boredom get the best of them during a long thumbs-twiddling session, said:

“Let the bad luck girl die. Let the curse be gone as well. Let it be over and done with!”

Many nods of approval followed this rousing declaration. The wind, which blew outside, heard these things, but took no notice. The wind heard everything, and did nothing. This was the way of the wind: of all the winds, and their cardinal directions. Change was work for fire and water; it was never the concern of the wind. 

That is, until the words ‘fire’ and ‘axe’ caught the wind’s attention. The wind did not care about much, but it did care for news about burning down the old apothecary’s shop, especially with a virgin locked inside. As the knower of all things, the wind knew that this was the one way to re-awaken the old curse.

Wasting no time, the wind carried this news to the birds of the forest. Kiara had always been kind to the birds. Secretly, she had scattered crumbs from old bread in the forest, even though this practice was severely frowned upon. She wished them not to starve, and herself to not be deprived of their lovely songs. 

As much as they loved her, there was more for the birds to worry about than lost winter crumbs. Of all the forest creatures, the birds had been the ones most affected by the evil reverberations of the long ago wailing curse. The wind had carried the wailing, but the birds had lost their songs to it. More than any others, whisperings of the Wailing Curse worried the wind and the forest birds.

Songbirds and whistlers did not normally carry such dire news. The flock debated. In the eyes of the robins and nightingales, it was work for crows and ravens. As the sun reached far past its zenith, a lowly swallow finally volunteered. The frail little bird did not know that his mission was hopeless. He would not be able to spurn her to escape.

For Kiara, there was no way out. But, he was just a simple swallow guided by heart, and little else. Even if she had told him, he would not have understood. Once he had imparted his message, she sent him on his way with a smile. Tragically, he then flew away through the damaged rafters, never looking back, and left her alone again. 

After the bird was gone, Kiara could do nothing but curse herself. She cursed herself and her own stupid luck. After a while, she mostly cursed her own stupidity for ever having smiled at the damned, golden-haired stranger. And, it was not just any smile; it was her very own beaming, shy smile. The secret one that she never showed to anyone. 

In Csejthe, a frosty half-smile was the most anyone ever got. There was little enough to smile about in the brutal Hungarian lowlands. But, within the tumble-down apothecary's shop, lying amongst the cobwebs of despair, Kiara could not truly bring herself to regret having smiled. The moment of looking into the boy’s sea-blue eyes was her best memory, and the last real one. 

Just a few days beforehand, a betrothal had been imminent. It would have been a good match, if not a romantic one. The marriage would have helped to secure her family’s future. Her betrothed was a blacksmith, and he made a good income by way of the forge. But, now her family's future was over, the same as hers.

They would not be able to distance themselves from her infamy. Following her execution, by whatever unscrupulous means the council finally decided, her family name would also die. It would become a hushed thing until it ceased to exist at all. Then, after enough time had passed, and the property had been properly blessed, a new family would slither its way into her family home. 

It would only be a newer family who would take possession. Any family who was older would already have built on a plot with a better view of Rolling Hill. Only a family newer to Csejthe, one who had sprung up from the hills, merchant-borne or the like, would take the time and expense to cast the spells necessary to take over another family's ancestral plot.

Kiara hated to think of this, so she tried to think of happier things. After all, she mused: the stars could still all fall from the sky. However, if all the stars did not fall from the sky, she had to face the truth that the best life she could hope for would be to be sold into a great lord and lady's house. 

There, Kiara supposed, she could live her life as just another servant, as faceless as any other, and any fate could befall her, be it happy or sad. Everyone knew that mighty scandals were as common as rats in high and noble houses. After some time, it became clear to Kiara that even if the council found its perilous mercy, and she was suffered to live, it would not be in Csejthe. Like village trash, she would be sold out of the community, and into a featherless marriage. 

Most likely, it would be to some gruesome merchant. After all, most merchants were grotesque and terrible. The Poppy Road left them pockmarked and sunburnt, with a strange grey-green tint to the redness. If they were not poppy merchants, then wine, brothels and road bandits did the same work. At best, such a marriage would be an unsavory proposition. 

Perhaps it would be best for everyone, Kiara thought sadly. She would live, and no one in Csejthe would ever have to think of her, not ever again. Then, the fetid smile of a remarkable merchant erupted from her memory. He was the worst of the worst: so rich and monstrous that he had paid to have the teeth of a dead man sewn together with gold, then set upon his empty jaws. 

The first time he came to Csejthe, it was a summer day, and the high, mountain village was steeped in sunlight. But, when he smiled in greeting, the morbid falsies seemed to quicken with a scaly, blue-green iridescence. All at once, half the villagers felt faint and swayed upon their feet. It was several minutes before commerce could resume, and even then it was always with a measure of trepidation.

Kiara had to remind herself that not all merchants were so loathsome. In her life, some she had seen had even passed for handsome. At least for a time. As the years wore, and trading seasons came and went, they all aged unnaturally; sodomized by too many years spent living hard on the road. It was agreed by all the villagers that the world outside of Csejthe spawned nothing but beastly horrors.

It was madness to think of a future attached to such a man. The idea made her want to claw at her eyes, but she could not draw the strength. Silent sobs choked her breathing as hope seeped from her pores to mix with the dried remains of ancient, spilled potions. The vapors from this powerful combination cast her thoughts about in ever more flickering, and then savage, directions. 

As the spells took hold, everything around her took on the character of a means to bring about the end. Surprisingly, for all the chaos in the shop, many of the old, brown bottles remained unbroken. Still, there was no way to know what they contained. To find out, Kiara would have to be brave enough to unseal the rotting corks of the aged bottles and pour the contents down her throat. 

There was also no way to know what would happen next. The old apothecary had been a powerful magician, so anything was possible. It was a huge risk, but Kiara knew there was a rare spice called mermaid's slipper, and that it would do the job. When dry, mermaid’s slipper was useless; it did not even have the flavorful zing of pepper. But, when mixed into a certain potion, it brought about a painless death, like drifting off to sea. 

However, if mixed wrong, or into a frothy formula of frog’s feet, it could cause a person to die a rotting death, starting at their toes. But, Kiara decided, nothing could be worse than what had already happened to her except, perhaps, what awaited her. When she tossed and turned, her skull scraped against the cracked ceramic urn that served her as a pillow. When she shifted her weight, the black husks of dead beetles crunched sickeningly beneath her hips. It was more than one person could bear.

Then, without warning, a rock flew into her ashen world, and broke her suicide haze. The unexpected stone broke through one of the priceless, ancient window panes. The dark glass, which had managed to keep the light out for centuries, shattered instantly. Suddenly, a blinding beam of pure sunlight burned into the dim shop. 

For Kiara, the blackened, veined glass had merely filtered the world in as torched silhouettes, unnatural and frightening to behold. The sudden brightness crackled against her hazel-green pupils, and Kiara instinctively drew back, covering her face with her filthy hands. Only at night had she felt safe to look outside through the murky windows. It was then that the sun-streaked, wobbly colors sometimes gave way to a few errant slivers of moonlight. 

But, these few wholesome rays of silver light were immediately lost to the deep-lain shadows like quicksand. Still, the hoary glass had value. It had once been very costly and, even though the sun had melted it into warped rivulets of old sand and fire, it was a huge rarity. In Csejthe, the glass was a point of pride, even if the shop was not.

After all, no other village in the Kingdom of Hungary could boast a similar marvel. Stories of the ancient glass brought many cutthroat and greedy merchants. These men thought that the remote village must contain vast wealth. They were always disappointed that the real Csejthe had only mushrooms and timber to offer, and most of them never came back.

Not since the old apothecary had anyone in the village been considered rich. Famously, he had been the last descendant of the oldest family in Csejthe. But, for all his wealth, he had died childless. His legacy could only be found in the weeping glass, an empty noose, and the stink of an old curse. 

Generations later, it astonished the villagers that the old apothecary had become rich enough to buy glass windows for every wall of his shop. It was the grandest apothecarium in the Kingdom of Hungary. The old apothecary had hired an army of laborers to tear down his ancestral family home and build the shop in its place. 

For a time, whispers had circulated that the old man had stolen the dragon's treasure, but these rumors died when his treachery and black sorcery were revealed. The shop had been completed during a Worm moon, which everyone thought was a bad sign. A Worm moon had also hung in the sky when Darvulia silenced the Wailing Curse.

As day turned to night, the musty air cleared of the accidental spells. Kiara crept to the broken window and watched the moon turn its nearly full and shining face towards the high mountain village. She did not need anyone to tell her it was a Worm moon. In Csejthe, the moon's progress was as popular a topic of conversation as the weather. 

A Worm moon was an unlucky time. It was the time set aside each spring for borrowing tools, and laying down plans for the summer. It was also known to be a time for treachery, longing, and casting (or undoing) spells. For almost two hundred years, the Wailing Curse had lain dormant. No one knew that it could be re-awakened, nor that it had only been a warning shot in the hands of destiny. 

To be continued...


	11. Synopsis-ish

If you don’t like ghost stories, read no further. This story is filled to the brim with ghosts, ghosts and more ghosts. There are tales about every make and model of spook, from the innocuous to the downright dangerous. It is even composed in the asphyxiated language of ghosts, which is a language of memories and lies. By necessity, the story is equal parts reconstruction and imagination, just like the ghosts themselves. 

Unfortunately, the world of the paranormal is just as imperfect a place as the real world. Ghosts are great liars, so don’t be fooled by their pretty words. When dealing with ghosts, it is best to trust your senses and keep to a few simple rules. The most important rule is to never trust a ghost. People always want to do this, and it is always a mistake. Especially if the ghost was deeply loved in life, it can be easy for a person to imperil their own soul while still not learning anything of value. 

No one knows this better than Katharine Anderson. She lost her whole family in the Eddy Street Massacre, and has been obsessed with the event ever since. Dreams, premonitions and psychic forebodings all told her that her daughter, Anna, was lost between the worlds of the living and the dead. After the massacre, Katharine devoted her life to finding ways to contact her lost daughter. 

Unluckily for her, the best way was destroyed right along with Anna. It was a relic from the old world, which had been passed down through her family. Katharine was descended from an ancient and noble family, but she never knew it. Her mother hid the truth about her heritage, and about the fact that they possessed the vessel of a red genie: the last red genie. Katharine never knew what she had. Then she accidentally unleashed him on one otherwise perfectly normal night. 

She soon learned that through the red genie all things she wanted were possible. When she wished for true love, the genie brought her a man named Alexander Anderson. She instantly loved him, and he felt the same. He was close-lipped about himself, but his Army friends called him the Green Beret Barber. It was many years before she knew why. And decades passed before she knew that he possessed a genie of his own: a black genie. 

By that time, it was too late to re-think their life together; he had already become The Green Beret Barber of Orange Street. He ran his office, Red Baron Real Estate, out of a modest lease on Orange Street, and he was very rich; probably the richest man in town. No one called him The Green Beret Barber to his face anymore, not even in jest. In Missoula, he was as well-known for his quick temper as he was for his money.

Together, he and Katharine built a beautiful home in the Missoula Valley. The town they both loved was guarded by high peaks on all sides, and a river ran through it. Years earlier, Alexander had fallen in love with the natural beauty and stupendous views available in Missoula, MT. Without thinking twice, he had decided that it was the best place for him and his new bride. 

The world they shared was savory, glutted and exceptional in every way. Each day was an elitist montage of fun, favors, shopping and planning for their next luxurious adventure. It seemed like it would never end until, suddenly, it did. In a flash of horror and brutality, their wonderful life was gone as though it had never existed at all. The only thing left was memories, both good and terrible. After many years, Katharine found her purpose in writing the story of what happened. It was her final, grasping effort to understand the violent lunacy of it all. 

Anna Anderson is an illusion: a literary invention created by her mother. Simply put, she is the shade of a character who once was. Like all shades, Anna doesn’t actually understand that she is dead. Shades are the only ghosts who exist exclusively in the invisible periphery. This fog and mist makes them blind to other ghosts and the living. Truth is, her eyes were forever closed on the world before the first sunrise emblazoned the new millennium in a riot of hopeful pastels. 

Anna never owned a cell phone, or texted, or thought to live her life virtually. Her escape (along with her best friend, Elizabeth), was the world of the paranormal. Now, as a shade, her world of escape has collapsed down to a precious, once-remembered reality. In death, Anna is the worst type of shade: a lost shade. She sees nothing but what she wants to. Her mother, on the other hand, sees only that her girl has not changed much at all. 

Of all the deaths that occurred on that terrible night, it was Anna’s death that was the hardest for Katharine to take. Anna was her only daughter and her husband, Alexander Anderson, killed their daughter, and all her friends. Then, the bastard turned the gun on himself. His death accomplished nothing. It only left a gaping void. For the next ten years, she spun her wheels using lesser spells to contact the dead. 

She even convinced herself that she would do better with this than others. After all; none of them had kept a red genie, or met a black genie. This convenient deception did not last very long. The facts were hard to ignore. Her innate talents made no difference. The commonplace spells and arcane methods she employed were pitifully lacking. Scrying and Ouija boards and seances left her with nothing but wispy, desperately imprecise results. 

Finally, Katharine was forced to face the truth. She could choose to commit to a terrible solution that would surely work, or she could abandon her quest entirely. It was then that she turned to the dusty, old lamp. She knew that the black genie would not let her down. He was the last genie left in the world, which made him the only true conduit for speaking to the dead. Her plan worked quickly. Once unleashed, Anna’s shade curiously drew near to him, and was softly irradiated by his pale green aura. 

Unfortunately, even with all his power, the black genie cannot summon Anna. He can only try to attract her. The black genie does not own her like he does almost every other ghost in the Eddy Street Massacre House. For Anna, her existence is ever like a lucid dream. The genie warned her mother that she must be careful not to break the illusion. Ghosts cannot hear the truth from the living. The conversations between mother and daughter happen in jumps and whispers that split disjointedly, and sway far afield from time or reason.

Anna’s shade is unusual. She presents as being lithe and real, full of color. Anna is a perennial image of her living self, and very unlike her father’s ghost. Such is the fate of a casualty of the black genie, but it is not the fate of his prisoners. Her father is almost unrecognizable in death. Gone is the strong, powerful presence he once possessed. He is now mute and bound, hovering about the periphery like a long, brown stain on the wall. 

Oftentimes, Katharine cannot help but wonder if that is how it will be for her, too. After all; she has done the same as he. Even at the time, she could not pretend to be ignorant of the consequences. When the red genie was destroyed, her soul was restored. Then, she chose to barter it away once again. What she did not know is how long the black genie had been set on destroying the red genie, her red genie. True; the black genie wanted Katharine for his own clandestine purposes, but there was another reason, too.

All genies hate each other. When there were many genies, they chased one another across the world with frightful results. The reasons for constant pursuit and destruction were simple; there have only ever been two ways that a genie might attain freedom. The first was a joke among the powerful specters. It required that a human being forego the promises of true love and unimaginable wealth in order to set his genie free. To genies, it was a ridiculous notion, both laughable and tragic. As if any new master had ever, in the history of the world, done such a thing. 

The second method was a secret. Only a few genies who had ever existed knew about it. However, the black genie knew, and had known for a long time. At the beginning of the twentieth century, he had been the oldest and most powerful of the handful of genies who remained. 

Only one genie would ever be able to use the secret method because, once used, the door would forever again be closed. Katharine Anderson is the key to the black genie’s hopes for freedom. She is the daughter of a famous family known not only for their wealth and power, but also their scandalous ties to magic. The black genie has chased her family, and other, similar families, for many centuries hoping to find the one who could help him attain freedom. 

Over time, he grasped fool after fool, wasting time and energy: only to find out that they were the wrong ones. After their deaths, they became just more useless faces among his insubstantial minions, their ancient magic trinkets amounting to little more than sand and ash. But, the black genie knows it will be different this time. Katharine is no fraud. She possesses what he wants, even though she has no knowledge of what she has or what to do with it. 

Like many objets d’ magic, its portentous powers are hidden in plain sight behind a peculiarly pedestrian facade. For her own safety, Katharine’s family never told her who she really was, or the powers contained in the seemingly worthless antiques she inherited. Unfortunately for the black genie, he cannot kill Katharine to get what he wants. Genies can lie, scheme, connive and manipulate events to bring about their master’s death, but they cannot use their own power to kill a master. 

Still, this is little more than an inconvenience. The black genie has waited for millennia to be free. A few more decades make little difference to him. So, in the meantime, he is content to aid Katharine in her efforts to write the real story of what happened the night of the massacre. After all, the black genie had a huge role in the events that night. Besides, secretly, he has always wanted to be famous. As the written word caught on and became enduringly popular and widespread, it irked him to no end that there were no stories about him or his close brethren. 

The black genie always suspected that he was too old and powerful to be completely unknown forever. In his mind, the most famous stories about genies made it seem like only one faceless, nameless genie had ever existed. It was the same intolerable ignorance he had encountered in every new master for centuries: until Katharine came along. Meanwhile, lots of angels and devils had their own inspired stories compiled in voluminous texts. It was just plain unfair as far as the black genie was concerned.

While Katharine was solely intent on reconstructing her daughter’s column, How To Deal With a Haunting, and the true story of the events that led to the massacre, the black genie continued to exert his influence. He did not care about the blog, or the story of The Green Beret Barber; he never did. But, he does care about the Internet. As the story moved along, the black genie came to see it as his chance to set the record straight, and finally right an old wrong. 

Ironically, and unknown to each of the characters, the disparate stories of the people, the ghosts and the genies all lead to the same place. Each of the three genies who had managed to survive into the 1990’s had their own role in the massacre. With the other two genies gone, the black genie is the only one left with the knowledge to recreate the story in its entirety. He also knows that once he is freed, the story will be the only remaining testament of a world where genies existed. 

The black genie has taken for granted that this is how it will be, but he is wrong. He does not know that he will have to contend with another supernatural being before he is free to spread his dark corruption throughout the world. This being is far older and more powerful than any genie. In fact, it is this being who put the black genie in the lamp in the first place, a thousand years before the world was young.

The unctuous black genie does not know how close his nemesis is. In a way, the enemy never left. The genie has not thought of this other being for a long time. After so many centuries of silence, he just assumed his nemesis had been destroyed. Finally killed, and good riddance, in the genie’s mind. But, his enemy was not destroyed. This older, far more charismatic being is chained down. He is being held in a cage not very dissimilar from the vessel that holds the genie. 

In the end, these two powerful, supernatural beings will battle for Katharine’s ghost, and possession of the world’s most powerful magical object. It is something that only she can unlock. It is the essence of her family’s storied lineage, the knowledge locked within her, that is the key. Her living body is not what matters most. Her ghost will do for each of their purposes. Whoever wins this magical war will have the power to decide the fate of the world, and whether it be angels or demons who swallow forever’s woes.

To be continued...


	12. The Tour Bus

October, 2010*

“Welcome to Missoula, Montana! My name is Ben Watson, and I’m your guide today for Haunted Missoula Tours. I have a lot of information to share with you about the locations we will be visiting today, so let’s get going. First, though, a little bit about me. I was born in Missoula, and I’ve lived here my whole life. Right now, I’m a sophomore at UM studying for my English Lit degree. My parents are both professors there, so I guess you could say it’s in the blood.

“Anyway, I grew up in a house not a half-mile from here, so I feel like I have a lot of personal history with this property. When I was a kid, we used to dare each other to run up, and look in the windows. The joke was that a ghost might look back at you. Except, it wasn’t really a joke. Most kids I knew didn’t have the guts to do it, but I did it. I did it a few times. Sometimes nothing happened, but then there were the times when I really did see something scary.

“And what I saw, it saw me too. That was the creepiest part. I can’t really describe what it was. All I know is that it was some kind of paranormal being. Scared the shit out of me, to be honest. But, I haven’t seen that thing in years. And, I’m by this place all the time. Really, I’m just grateful to not have seen that awful thing again, whatever it was. 

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to scare you. But, this is a scary place. Maybe that thing is gone now. It probably is. At least, I hope so. I’m a ghost fanatic, you have to be to do this job, but whatever it was scared the crap out of me. Still, I gotta say that even with the occasional scary encounter, this job sure beats the hell out of jerking lattes! Mostly, even when they’re visible, the ghosts don’t interact, and they seem pretty harmless. 

“Still, most people in town just hate this place like no other, and pretty much avoid it at all costs. I imagine that’s gotta be hard to do, especially since we’re so near the University, which is the busiest place in town. And, the little fact that the Eddy Street Massacre House is really what put Missoula on the map. I mean, you can’t escape it. And, it’s all anyone ever really talks about, except the snow, and skiing, maybe. 

“But, even after everything I’ve seen, I just can’t help it. I love this place. I’m a ghost junkie; and if you’re a ghost junkie, this is the best place to be. And, I especially love all the ghost stories that come out of this place. Maybe that’s because cause I’m a Lit major. Who knows, ya know? But, it’s true that a lot people treat this place just like it’s part fairy tale; like, it couldn’t be real, right? But, as you can see right in front of you, this place is very real, and so are the ghosts who haunt it. At least, that’s my opinion...

“Anyway, before we start the walking tour, I’ll tell you one of the ghost stories which you may not have already heard. I mean, there really is no way to prove which ghost might be which, so the ghost in the window might be a different ghost from the man I’m going tell you about. I mean, there’s really just no way to know, but most people think it is this man’s ghost. One reason they think it’s a specific ghost, or a ghost who was once a person, is that while most ghosts seem to change, sometimes even right in front of you, this one doesn’t. This particular ghost happens to be one of the types of ghosts who seem to stay stable over time. 

“So, the story I’m going to share is about the ghost who stares down from the high turret bedroom window. This ghost, the ghost of a man, always looks down at the same spot. Actually, it is not far at all from where we have parked the bus today. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he doesn’t seem to be there today. Although, I’ll tell you, that that can change at any time. But, back to the story, there is only one confirmed death in that room. The man who died there was named Oscar J. Craig. You might never have heard of him, but he was the first President of the University of Montana. A local legend, Professor Craig died of natural causes, or so it is believed. But, maybe, just maybe, he was another victim of the house.

“Anyway, today, we all know that the Eddy Street Massacre House is one of the most haunted houses in America, maybe even the world. But, it did not start out that way. It started out as a dream - Professor Oscar Craig’s dream, to be specific. And, even though now it is just a sad ruin, it was once very beautiful. Construction on 228 Eddy Street began in 1898. It was the first real luxury home to be built in this section of town. Back then, this area was practically deserted. Even the University of Montana, which is just a few blocks from here, was just a single building, five teachers, and a name that was more an idea at the time.

“Dr. Oscar J. Craig was a brilliant and driven man. He was also very rich and powerful. While we know a lot about his work on campus, honestly, with regards to his personal life, we don’t know much at all. What we do know is that he was born in 1846 in Jefferson County, Indiana; and that, as a young man, he served as a private in the Civil War, where he did see action. After the war, he returned home and, a few years later, began a teaching career at Purdue University. 

“After many years of teaching, it seems that Professor Craig was ready for a new challenge. At some point, he was offered the opportunity to come to Montana, and he jumped at the chance. That’s about all we know, for sure. Well, that’s not true, we also know that Professor Craig did not come from money, so chances are he did not travel very much before joining the military. In contrast, the woman he married, Narcissa, came from a very wealthy family back in New Orleans. The couple never had any children. But, they always had a dog, a schnauzer, who was always named Eddy. Not a coincidence, just so you know.

“Anyway, as I said, the only clues we have about his life, and who he was, remain tied to this house. From what we know, construction of this home began as a passion project, but ended up becoming a dangerous obsession. Several workers lost their lives building him his dream home, but Craig would not be deterred from building the grandest and most beautiful house the Missoula Valley had ever seen, no matter what it cost. 

“From the beginning, construction was riddled with problems, so much so that it had to be begun not once, but twice! It also wasn’t long before rumors began to circulate that the site was haunted. It was said that as soon as a new wall went up, the scratching would start. There were even claims that the scratching would follow certain workers, but not others. Other people who worked on the house claimed that shadow spirits chased them up and down through empty corridors. Chilling, I know, right?

“So, as you can imagine, this caused all kinds of problems with the site. Workers quit without notice, and refused to return. It seems that a lot of people just couldn’t take the stress of working with ghosts in the walls. I guess that’s understandable but, anyway, most of the workers stayed on. Times were hard back then, especially in winter, and a good paycheck was tough to come by, haunted property or not. 

“Once it was finally completed, Dr. Craig and his wife did not live in it for very long at all. Soon after moving in, Professor Craig began to complain of ill health. And, within a year, he had retired from the University. At the time, he had been President of UM for 13 years. But, within two years of retiring, and living in the house full-time, he was dead. Narcissa subsequently fled the house, saying she wanted nothing more to do with the property, or the town. Famously, she left Missoula right after her husband’s death. She pretty much went straight from the funeral to the train station. 

“And, while her departure was quick, even more surprising was the fact that she left everything behind. All she took was a single suitcase, and she never came back; not for anything, even though there was a lot of valuable stuff left in the house. 228 Eddy Street then sat abandoned for several years before finally being sold at auction. By then, the house had been vandalized so many times that nothing was left of all the luxurious embellishments and fancy antiques. It really was a sad fate for such a beautiful home that had taken almost ten years to complete.

“Yep, you heard that right - ten years! I mean, even in 1900, people got houses built faster than that; especially when you’re talking about people like the Craigs, who could afford to just throw money at the project, no matter how many problems came up. But, still, all that money couldn’t stop the whole works from burning to the ground in June of 1903. It happened just as the Craigs were preparing to move in, and start their new life.

“While the cause of the fire was never officially determined, it did claim the lives of two people, and the house itself was a total loss. It also took with it most of Narcissa Craig’s prized antiques collection. Now, if you know anything about antiques, then you probably know that her collection was famous, because it pretty much included every expensive antique in the Western Hemisphere. 

“Also, ironically, and in a way, it was Narcissa’s collection that was the most likely cause of the fire. You see, one of the people who died in the fire was a photographer who had been hired to photograph Narcissa’s antiques while the house was just newly finished. At the same time, a roofer was finishing some work while the photographer took pictures in the house below. I guess it was assumed that the roofer’s work would not interfere with the photographer. I mean, the house is pretty massive, so that makes sense. 

“Anyway, what most people think happened is that there was an accident with the photographer’s flash powder. In case you don’t know what flash powder is, it is what was used to light the flash in old-fashioned cameras. I don’t if anyone here has ever seen one of those things in action, but lighting flash powder is basically like lighting a torch. But, dangerous or not, it is how people used to light photographs. I mean, I guess if someone didn’t know what they were doing, then the stray sparks could start a fire. 

“It pretty much makes sense, but it’s unusual. I mean, generally speaking, a few sparks won’t burn down a giant house. But, still, nothing that happens with this house is normal. Once the fire started, it was completely voracious. By all reports, the whole house was consumed within a few minutes. People who saw it said that it wasn’t just a fire, it was a complete inferno; like a volcano or something had just exploded inside the house. 

“The poor roofer never stood a chance. He fell to his death, and was completely consumed by the flames, which reached over fifty feet high. Nothing was ever found of him but an ashen jawbone. Actually, the only way we know it was him was through his dental records. His name was Gary Bennett, and he left behind a wife and two kids. The photographer was not so lucky. No trace was ever found of him. We only even know that he was there because one of the steel legs of his tripod somehow survived the fire.

“Despite this tragedy, Professor Craig was undeterred. He even began to take matters into his own hands. I mean, literally. On evenings and weekends, the President of the University, and one of the richest men in town, was often seen hammering away at these very walls in front of you. If the haunting or the ghost stories bothered him, he didn’t show it. And, he certainly didn’t talk about it. Even so, the construction process continued to be riddled with every type of problem. And, worse, eight more lives were lost before it was finished.

“Anyway, enough about all that, I know you are all eager to experience this terrifying property for yourselves. So, grab your cameras because it is time to experience the true heart of Haunted Missoula: the Eddy Street Massacre House! You never know, it could be someone here today that ends up getting the picture that finally proves the paranormal does exist! All right, now everyone off the bus. Please also remember to take all your valuables with you. Haunted Missoula Tours cannot be held responsible for any lost or missing items...”

Aside from silence, this was the only sound, the only heartbeat in the now rundown, defunct neighborhood. It had been this way for a very long time when the tours began to run. And, once the noise started up again, it was only a matter of time before it descended into screams.

 

* Hunter Moon, The Old Farmer’s Almanac


End file.
